Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/14

On Tuesday it was as hot as the dickens, yet I sold several books. Today was picture perfect, and I sold only one - Francis Hodgson Burnett's enduring children's novel, first serialized in 1910, The Secret Garden. There's just no explaining it. Thanks, madam.
Yesterday, as my great niece/godchild, Danielle, and I were leaving the old house, I asked her to program my cell phone number into hers, in case we got separated on the crowded streets of Manhattan or the subway. I waited until we were outside lest her grandma, my sister, freak. Of course, there was something else in the back of my mind besides the possibility of being lost in a crowd. No one knows when the next terrorist attack will occur. Hopefully the monsters will never make it to our door again. I wasn't taking anything for granted.
I hadn't been on the subway in two years, the last time I set up the floating bookshop in the city. The results were not worth the hassle, no different from what I get in Brooklyn, where I can at least park for free.
Cell phones are great, but, like anything else in a free society, they are abused. Or maybe that's just a sign I'm not as sociable as I should be. People pass constantly with a phone pressed to an ear, oblivious to all else. I don't get it.
There was a bit of drama at the nearby bus shelter today. A middle aged Russian couple was bickering. The heavy set woman, totally inebriated, fell to the ground. Her companion (husband?) tried futilely to pull her to her feet. Someone flagged down a private ambulance, but the woman refused to go to the hospital, although she had suffered a cut to the forehead. "Nyet!" she said adamantly, waving a hand. The attendant did manage to help the companion get her onto the bench. Later, the guy, no doubt hammered himself but at least able to walk, had her up and tried to pull her along. Of course she fell, and he left her sitting there alone on the sidewalk. Many people stopped, concerned, but left when I explained the circumstances. Fortunately, EMS soon showed. When the woman again refused help ("Nyet!"), the team contacted the police. Eventually, the young officer assigned the task, speaking Russian, convinced the woman to go to the hospital. As we all know, things can get ugly on even the most beautiful of days. It's just life.
Thanks to my buddy, Adam, who just dropped off a massive donation of books.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 713

It was a great day. My great-niece/godchild, Danielle, is visiting from Jersey this week and today was my turn to entertain her. She'd never been to Times Square, so I thought it would be fun to take her there, to see the effect of standing at the "crossroads of the world" in the eyes of a girl a month shy of her 13th birthday. To my surprise, she took it all in stride, even when I laid the big surprise on her. As we approached the "Tickets" area, where prices of the unsold seats of the day's performances are cut in half, I asked if she would like to see a show. She looked at the computerized chart and picked The Addams Family. I was so happy she didn't choose Mamma Mia or Phantom of the Opera, which I saw and hated on DVD. Of course, the chart gave no inkling of the cost. I was hoping it would be in the range of $50 per. My mindset was 15 years behind the times, the last visit I had from my friends Judy and Jim and their kids, parents now themselves, who were in town from Michigan. We saw Les Miserables. The price for The Addams Family was $71 each plus tax. I was stunned. The price of her second and third choices, Mary Poppins and Catch Me If You Can were not any more reasonable, so I decided to play the good uncle, and The Addams Family it was. Fortunately it was great fun. The book by Roger Elice and Marshall Brickman was filled with laughs. Brickman collaborated on several Woody Allen screenplays: Sleeper, Annie Hall (Academy Award), Manhattan, and Manhattan Melodrama. Andrew Lippa wrote both the music and lyrics and, while none of the songs will ever likely become a standard, all were very entertaining. Roger Rees, who has a long list of great theater credits, was terrific as Gomez. America's sweetheart, Brooke Shields, played Morticia ably, wisely staying within her range. I'm always amazed at how competently some non-singers can sing. Of course, she was blown away by the real singers in the cast, but she did not embarrass herself. I will always root for Shields, who has been with us since she was a little girl and who seems like such a nice person. The real star of the show was Brad Oscar as Uncle Fester, at times reminding me of Gilbert Gottfried. A close second was Jackie Hoffman as Grandma. She had the best line. When Pugsley complained about her obscure literary references, she said something like: "You'd be all right if you stopped the damn texting and picked up a book once in a while." The parents in the audience cheered. Also fantastic was Rachel Potter in her Broadway debut as Wednesday. What a powerful voice. Of course, the musicianship, sets, costumes and effects were first rate, as is to be expected of the Great White Way. I guess the talent works best in the cold. The AC in the Lunt-Fontane was cranked to the max. Even Danielle, who lives in the coldest house I've ever been in, slipped her arms beneath her T-shirt.
How lucky we are to live in a world that offers light-hearted fare like The Addams Family as well as gut-wrenching work like Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman. I bet you didn't know that Gomez took Morticia to see that great play on their first date - and that they laughed all the way through it! That wonderful  tidbit came early in the show. I was won over immediately. There were some adult references along the way, but I'm sure Danielle has seen bluer stuff on cable. I didn't know what to say about them, so I played dumb. Not a stretch, some might say.
Okay - vacation's over - back to work.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/12

I was questioning my sanity as I walked out of the building today. The forecast was for a heat index of over 100. I had a bottle of water with me, frozen overnight, that a lovely, light-skinned black woman gave me yesterday minutes before I closed up. She either lives or works in the area, passing me daily, always flashing a beautiful smile and saying hello. I set up the floating bookshop at my usual spot and stepped into the shade, where there was a nice breeze. I immediately realized it would have been stupid not to have come out. Sure enough, one of my mantras: "Take a shot," was soon proven again. Ned, a young man in his 20's, director of the Sheepshead Bay Bites and the Bensonhurst Bean websites, stopped by to chat. He asked if I were interested in doing a column and I begged off, citing the blog and the editing of Bob Rubenstein's book, The White Bridge, which may kill me before it's done. I have no interest in journalism other than reading the New York Post and scanning online headlines for anything I may have missed. I felt like a rat, even more so when Ned purchased A Hitch in Twilight. He's read the stories I have posted online.
Having mentioned Bob, I'm reminded of an item in today's Post. During WWII, so many Nazi soldiers were infected with venereal disease by French prostitutes that the high command ordered the making of blond, blue-eyed sex dolls to serve as a substitute for the real thing. Apparently, they were 30-40 years ahead of their time. The idea was rejected by the rank and file, who feared the disgrace of being captured with something like that in their possession. Did the Nazis have a lock on perversion or what? Of course, I immediately emailed the item to Bob, whose new novel has a lot to do with eyes of blue.
The sale to Ned would have been more than enough on such a hot day, but soon a cab rolled up to Waj's gyro stand. I recognized the driver, who has purchased books from me several times. He reads thrillers between calls. He chose four. Then Susan approached and purchased some children's books, including Lassie Come Home, for her grandkids. And a bit later a middle age woman stopped and stared at the sign I wear around my neck. I explained what was what, and she fished in her purse and came out with three dollars. She refused to take any books, as she isn't a reader. "For your grandkids," I implored. "I don't have anybody," she said abruptly, hurrying away. And for the second time during the shift I felt like a rat, as if I were being deceitful.
Thanks, folks, and to everyone else: Take a shot.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/11

7/11/11 proved lucky, given the heat and humidity. A local security guard, who has purchased several CDs from the floating bookshop, once asked if I had any books on music. I searched high and low, in vain, for a Bruce Springsteen songbook I was sure I hadn't sold. It had guitar tablature to all the songs from his first four or five albums. I'd learned Badlands, I'm on Fire and Because the Night, and probably attempted a few more that I gave up on, tearing the sheets out to make the process easier. The other day I noticed that the stack of books and old manuscripts I used to support the sagging center of my futon/bed had collapsed. Sure enough, the Springsteen book was among them, as well as a Best of Fleetwood Mac, from which I'd learned Rhiannon. I'd tried to learn Sara, changing the key, marking up those pages with a pen, but I gave up. Although the chords were easy, there were too many changes for my taste. I have to really respect a song's lyrics to work that hard. While I really like the totality of Sara, especially the emotion, I find most of Fleetwood Mac's lyrics unpolished, never rising above a B. Don't get me wrong, writing B lyrics is a great accomplishment. Songwriting is a bear. Any attempts I've ever made were comical. Fleetwood Mac has a fine legacy.
Anyway, the gentleman bought the books, despite their flaws, as well as Freeing the Natural Voice, which actor-singer Johnny Feets had donated. I even located the pages I'd torn from the Springsteen book. Thank you, sir.
Congratulations to the Pittsburgh Pirates who, for the first time since 1992, are above .500 at the All-Star break, ending an incredible run of futility.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/10

Our mailman doesn't show until 4:30, even later these days. Sometimes I don't check the box until the next morning. There were two pieces waiting for me when I returned from my walk, Sunday paper in tow. One was obviously junk. The other had no return address and a typical window. IRS, was the first thing I thought, or some other type of unexpected bill. To my surprise, it was a check from Charles Schwab for sixteen bucks and change. There had been a problem with one of their funds, and everyone who owned shares was entitled to compensation. I was hours from opening up shop and I already knew it was going to be a good day.
I rolled up to Bay Parkway at noon and, after a five minute wait, got the perfect parking spot right under the tree. All I had to do was drop the crates at the curb. And business came my way even before I was fully set up. Russian women were kind again to me today. The first bought two thrillers, including Joy Fielding's The Deep End, which I consider the most well-written of the mysteries I've sampled, but which wasn't in very good condition. Another bought Erica Spindler's See Jane Die. And a third bought The Private Life of Animals, a nice coffee table book, another of Arlynn's many donations. Spasiba, ladies.
Later, Bad News Billy showed - with good news. He was on his way to take his grandson to the beach. Before he did, he purchased the War of The Worlds DVD I'd earned at Zoom Panel surveys, and the remaining four children's books I had on display. Thanks, buddy.
And I got a good parking spot when I got home. I won't have to lug the stuff too far tomorrow. What a great two days. How does one explain such sudden good luck? There's no sense trying, I guess. Like the one or two fluke good rounds of golf that come per year, it's simply to be enjoyed.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/9

Not finding parking near the Dolphin Gym on 24th Avenue proved fortuitous today to the floating bookshop. I set up under the tree on Bay Parkway and 85th and had spectacular luck. The percentages were overdue or, as author Monica Brinkman put it in the her novel, it was The Turn of the Karmic Wheel. I recognized Sue, a lifelong resident of Bensonhurst, immediately. Although we were never in the same class, we were contemporaries at St. Mary's Elementary School. That's not the only place I'd seen her. She worked the counter at a local deli and she is the cousin of five brothers who lived across the street and one house down from mine. When I told her Close to the Edge was set in the neighborhood, she bought it and said goodbye. I soon sold The Complete Guide to Design and Illustration, a beautiful coffee-table-like book, to a young man. Then I spotted Sue walking toward me. "Uh-oh," I thought. She'd read the first 15 pages and had returned for A Hitch in Twilight. I was surprised. I always hope strangers will buy Hitch first, as it is strictly a fun read that will in the least show the writing to be competent, whereas Edge is virtually humorless, downbeat, described by many as "disturbing," which I intended it to be. As we were gabbing, I asked if she were related to Paulie, an Exchange supervisor who became a  commodities trader. He was another of her cousins, who, tragically, died of cancer at about age 50. Still another of her cousins is a guy affectionately known in that lunatic asylum as Joe Piss for his frequent bathroom breaks in his years as a data entry reporter. He is a piece of work, someone who always sees the negative in everything, buys in to every conspiracy theory. "The glass is half full," I often told him at lunch, frustrated by his life view. He could not see it as anything but half empty, probably even a lot less than that. He found relief in food, which led to health problems, procedures, umpteen medications and disability. These days he is being sucked dry financially by his ex-wife, despite the fact that she is living with another man.
Sue is now working as a supervisor at the Department of Motor Vehicles in downtown Brooklyn. She has grown children and grandkids. As we continued to converse, a young man, here from Turkey only three weeks, stopped, mesmerized by the books, of which he bought six hardcovers. His English was surprisingly good for someone here such a short time.
After Sue left a gentleman approached to see what was what. Louis M. Gelormino is the author of The Gent's Prayer (Authors of Unity Publishing, 2005), an inspirational autobiography of transformation. He's had feelers from film producers, and publishers who want to release it on a wider scale. He surrendered two copies, one for me and the other to sell. Sure enough, I sold it to a young man 20 minutes later.
Thanks to everyone who made this a banner day.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/8

Things worked out well today. The cloud cover negated the heat, and the rain held off long enough for the floating bookshop to score some gains. Susan, a senior and regular customer, kicked things off by purchasing the H.G. Wells classic, The Time Machine, as well as a modern sci-fi novel whose title escapes me. Then a lovely young woman asked if I had anything with a psychological edge. I've grown so accustomed to selling books other than my own that I completely overlooked Close to the Edge. Duh! Chances are, given the way people are not spending, she would have passed, but my main reason in being out there is to promote my own work. Geez. Fortunately, she bought three books, including a non-fiction on forensic evidence and Joseph Wambaugh's Hollywood Moon. And, just before it started to rain, another Susan stopped by with a significant donation, lots of horror, chiefly Stephen King and Dean Koontz. She really went overboard. The bag was heavy and she lugged it a fairly long way. Thanks, ladies.
Are you hoarding incandescent bulbs, preparing for the ban on them scheduled to begin in 2012? I haven't started yet, hoping Congress will come to its senses and kill the law, which is ridiculous even by their standards. From the reports I've read, the new bulbs need time to reach full illumination and emit a light many have found lacking and unpleasant. And they cost four times as much! How so like politicians this edict is. It will benefit the few at the expense of the many. The winners will be GE and China. How infuriating that GE, in which I hold stock, has closed American plants that manufacture the old bulbs and opened one in China, where labor is cheaper. They stand to make huge profits from this government-mandated travesty. I am tempted to sell my shares in protest. So far I've resisted, fearing it would be a cutting off of the nose to spite the face. The new bulbs will supposedly save energy and last far longer. That remains to be seen. They are toxic, filled with mercury. There is a whole rigmarole to follow when one breaks. And, since they don't give off any heat, they are a danger in traffic signals in winter. They won't melt snow, so the signals get completely covered during heavy storms. At least one death has been reported because of this problem. How many of the famous unintended consequences will there be?
Speaking of H.G. Wells, I just received a copy of Steven Spielberg's version of War of the Worlds, courtesy of the good folks at Zoom Panel surveys. Thanks.
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