Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/21

102 degrees. Wow. I'm not sure I've ever been where the temperature was higher. I hitch-hiked to California in the summer of 1971. I guess it may have been higher there or in Vegas, but I was a 21-year-old bull back then. Heat didn't bother me. Cold always has. Whenever I'm tempted to buy an air-conditioner, I remind myself of the electric bills some of my friends have. Meanwhile, Steve, a retired teacher and poet, has some kind of deal in his building where he pays a maximum summer surcharge of only $50 or $60. How does someone with such a generous pension qualify for such a break? Business as usual in New York City.
Since I no longer spend any time on the subway or at the ice-box that is the Exchange trading floor, I have to deal with the heat all day, and it hasn't been easy, which shows how spoiled we are in America. Anyway, as soon as I finished editing Chapter Ten of Bob Rubenstein's The White Bridge, about high noon, I headed for the library, book in hand. The AC was set just right, not maxed. I spent an hour-and-a-half there. I had to laugh as I spotted one of my regular customers, Herbie, looking through the shelves as meticulously as he looks through the books I display. He did not find anything to his liking. He may have gone through the entire catalogs of the authors he prefers.
A heavy-set woman who passes me every day asked: "Aren't you the guy who sells the books?" I said it was too hot to set up shop. She carried on a conversation with a friend and was shushed twice by a middle aged man who had notebooks and text books spread before him. She countered that he had spoken on his cell phone just minutes ago. True, but it had been brief. I believed the guy was in the right. The conversation certainly disrupted my concentration. Cell phone rings were sounding every few minutes. I was surprised at how loud they were. Of course, many elderly need them at maximum volume. No one on the staff said anything to anyone.
To make the day seem productive, I burned an Ultimate Jazz CD (12 tracks, 60 minutes), which together with an Ultimate Sinatra and an oldies disc, I will offer when the floating bookshop reopens, which I hope will be Sunday under the tree at Bay Parkway and 85th Street, when the temperature is expected to reach only 93.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/21

Well, it's as hot as the weather people predicted. I felt moisture on my lip during my morning walk and that had never happened before. So it was a day of light work. I edited Chapter Eight of Bob Rubenstein's The White Bridge, and I'll do Chapter Nine in a while. Jack Ruby, nicknamed Sparky as a teen, is part of the novel. Bob believes Ruby is/was a relative of his.
I usually wait until a rainy day to visit the recycling room at Stop n Shop. Given the heat, I figured it wouldn't be too crowded. Sure enough, I was alone in there, except for a roach crawling on the machine I was using. Then I went to the customer service center. I'd lost my discount card, which accumulates points toward a gasoline discount at Shell, which Wanda, a cashier, pointed out to me. I thought all it would take was typing my phone number into the computer and I'd have a new card issued immediately. Not! I needed a receipt. I wasn't too thrilled about having to walk home and back, but every dollar counts these days and, since the floating bookshop is closed until the end of the heat wave, there was no better time to get it done. I first had to move the car for tomorrow's alternate side regulation. What fun it was to sit inside it!
On to politics - the President has raised 86 million dollars for his 2012 campaign war chest, which shows there is a lot of insanity in this country. When I heard this, a perfect solution for the debt crisis occurred to me. Since he is so adept at attracting cash, why doesn't he run a telethon to fund his Socialist agenda? I can picture him taking a cue from Jerry Lewis, gazing into the camera, a tear falling from his eye, as he pleads for funds. The TV crew could follow him to a basketball court or a golf course, and viewers could place wagers on whether he would hit a jumper from the top of the key or sink a ten-foot putt. Whatever.
Isn't raising the debt ceiling akin to giving booze to an alcoholic? Unfortunately, I cannot foist all the blame on the current administration. Pseudo-Republican George Bush was a spendthrift, although Obama, of course, has made him look like a tightwad. What are the odds that the current crop of Republicans will abandon their principles, proving again we have largely one-party rule? Ugh!
On a positive note, I burned an Ultimate Sinatra CD this afternoon, 17 songs, 57 minutes. I'm testing it as I write this. Now playing, the haunting "It Was a Very Good Year." Every year is good, despite the politicians.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/20

I had a couple of more nice surprises at the floating bookshop. There was a cool breeze today I had not expected. And I sold a copy of A Hitch in Twilight. As soon as Carole, a resident of Brighton Beach, heard the first story in the collection, The Man in the Box, is set there, she was hooked. The other day Mark, a teacher at Sheepshead Bay HS, told me how much he related to the story because he used to smoke pot with his buddies under the Boardwalk back in the day - at the very spot where the action occurred. Years ago there was space under the Boardwalk, which the Drifters made famous in that great 60's song. That space has been filled with sand to keep out, I presume, the riffraff.
Susan continues to be good to me, purchasing two more children's books. She mentioned the fact that Borders bookstores will be closing soon. It is my belief that down the road there will be only a few super Barnes and Nobles type stores. I doubt physical books will become as rare as vinyl records, but their numbers will decrease significantly. I can't imagine myself ever going to an electronic reading device, but I have no objection to this evolution. I believe in letting the market decide, unlike the totalitarians in congress who would dictate which light bulbs will prevail or that everyone must purchase health insurance.
I also thank the young home attendant who passes daily with the wheelchair-bound senior gentleman in her care, who this time purchased Stephen King's Nightmares and Dreamscapes. She got her money's worth. It must be 1000 pages. And thanks to the elderly woman who donated three pristine hardcover thrillers.
The shop will probably be closed the next three days, as killer heat kicks in. I will have time to make a big dent in the editing of Bob Rubenstein's The White Bridge. And I'm thinking about burning Ultimate Sinatra and Ultimate Jazz CDs for sale. They will be a steal at five bucks.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/19

As the great Irving Berlin wrote way back in 1938 (and no I was not there, wise guys): "We're having a heat wave, a tropical heat wave...." And it's schedule to get worse starting Thursday. So it was a pleasant surprise when I actually did some business today. It started immediately with the Merry Mail-Woman buying Sue Grafton's T Is for Trespass. Then a mustachioed young man named Sam purchased a bunch of children's books, and Susan, who has become my steadiest customers, took two more. And, just before I was about to close up, a young man stepped off the bus and noticed the two High School Musical novels I had on display. All except the Grafton thriller were part of Adam's large donation, as was Good Italian Cooking, which a Russian gentleman purchased yesterday. I hope he didn't get a hernia. That sucker was huge and heavy. Thanks, folks. I celebrated by buying an ice cream pop at CVS.
I'm starting to get a handle on Bob's second novel, The White Bridge. In Chapter Six he briefly brings in blues great Blind Lemon Jefferson, singing on a street corner, in what is almost a chapter within a chapter. I had to figure out how to make his presence seem unforced. I decided to have his female companion smart off to the social worker who is the main focus of the chapter. I think it works, although Bob has him playing guitar and singing during a snow storm, which is designed to highlight the poverty of the times but which seems far fetched. Anyhow, at least the task has become more enjoyable.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/17

Congratulations to Northern Ireland's Darren Clarke, 42, who won the British Open on his 20th try, five years after his wife succumbed to cancer. That tiny country has produced three of the last six major titlist (Grahame McDowell & Rory McIlroy). Which is the more spectacular - that fact or the way South Korean women are dominating the women's tour? Clarke finished five under, holding off Americans Phil Mickelson and Dustin Johnson by three strokes. Only four golfers finished under par, as the usual conditions, wind and rain, wreaked havoc with the field. Thomas Bjorn was -1. Reports noted that Clarke was smoking as he walked the fairways of the Royal St. George course in Sandwich, England, despite his wife's death to cancer. Hey, he's a human being. Well done, lad.
My mindset was pessimistic today at the floating bookshop. I think I'm letting the difficulty of editing Bob's second novel affect me. I'm three chapters into a second flush, and while it's a bit easier, it's still a bear. I was bolder the deeper I went into it, so I'm hoping it will become easier still.
I was sure I wasn't going to sell anything today. I spent the first hour peeling bark from the tree that provides much needed and appreciated shade. Then a Russian gentleman, fresh from the Chase ATM, stopped and signaled his teenage son, who was seated in a car. I asked the kid what he liked to read. He'd just finished Irwin Shaw's blockbuster, Rich Man, Poor Man. I didn't really have anything of that type, but his father was kind enough to purchase thrillers by Scott Turow, Michael Crichton, Ed McBain and Tom Clancy, and two children's books for his daughter. Spasibo, sir. And thanks to the young woman who seconds later bought a book on healthy cooking.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/16

I had a nice surprise at my sister's, where I check in every Saturday and do the laundry. They had shrimp oreganata last night, thinking my great niece/godchild, Daniele, would gobble it up. She had only two, and I got the leftovers. Not only was it an unexpected feast, it saved me money. I would have opted for one of those tasty crispy chicken salads at McDonalds. So I was ahead of the game even before I opened up the floating bookshop. Business was a far cry from last Saturday's surprise, but it wasn't a shutout. Thanks to the woman who bought Mary Higgins Clarke's I Heard That Song Before, the bank employee who took Patricia Cornwell's Blow Fly, and the gentleman who purchased the lovely pictorial, Growing Up With Science, which focuses on invention.
I set up under the tree on Bay Parkway between 84th and 85th Street. I'm not nearly as tough as I used to be, just one of the changes I've undergone along the way. I was once able to stand in the sun for hours. I now will not do business where there isn't shade. I wear a hat and sunglasses, at which I used to scoff. How I hate wearing a hat! If I hear a siren approaching, I cover my ears, despite the looks it draws from some. When I get home I immediately douse my head and neck with cold water. I used to take a hot shower no matter what. I now take a cool one on hot days. I would inwardly scoff at people who carried bottled water. I now resort to it sometimes. I wouldn't leave the house unless I'd played the guitar for a half hour. I now eschew it when running late, with only mild guilt. "It doesn't matter," I tell myself, reducing my priorities to a few, chief of which are getting more of my work published and more sold. I wonder if I'll ever get to the point of giving up on that too, ceasing the insanity of the artist's life, which Bob Rubenstein once kindly described (rationalized?) as "a fine madness." Things change.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 715

Adam's donation has already begun paying dividends. Before leaving the apartment, I took nine small books approximately the size of a .45 record and nearly as thin, and a Spiderman comic. Each focused on a teaching point such as Friendship or Truth. I hoped Susan, who has purchased many books for her grandkids, would be passing this gorgeous day. Sure enough, there she was as soon as I approached my usual nook. She took the whole batch. And good thing she did - I had only one other customer the whole shift, a woman who couldn't resist Jackie Collins' steamy Poor Little Bitch Girl, although she has scores of unread books at home. Thanks, ladies.
Fortunately, Bob Rubenstein showed up. We conversed for at least an hour. I'm editing his second novel, The White Bridge. I've done the first 32 chapters, aiming for clarity and an improvement in prose. He doesn't seem to mind my criticism. The story is good. It just needs to be told better. He had a real scare recently, falling down a short flight of stairs. Luckily, he suffered only bruising to the upper thigh and hip. He took such a flop that the bottle of Snapple he was holding flew well clear of him, or he may have been cut as well. That kind of thing at his age, at least 65, can really lead to a collapse in quality of life. He believes God was with him. It must be nice to have such faith.
I caught up to Unstoppable (2010) last night, courtesy of Netflix. I was surprised. It was a different kind of thriller. I expected crime and hostages, but it was a simple story of an unmanned runaway train threatening towns in southern Pennsylvania. It had an air of authenticity, as if the writer, Mark Bomback, had done his homework. The director, old pro Tony Scott, did an excellent job maintaining excitement, especially since the outcome was obvious. And is there a better action hero in films today than Denzel Washington? Chris Pine, who did so well as Captain Kirk in the latest version of Star Trek, lent able support. The real surprise was the lovely Rosario Dawson, a New York City girl, who was completely credible as the trains coordinator. On a scale of five, I rate this film three-and-a-half.
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