Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/8

My friend Bob Rubenstein has submitted his second novel, The White Bridge, to All Things That Matter Press. I'll be surprised if it isn't accepted. His first, Ghost Runners, is probably one of its best sellers. He asked me to write a blurb for the back cover. I edited the book, so only Bob knows it better than I do. Here's what I came up with:
Robert Rubenstein returns. On the heels of his first historical novel, Ghost Runners, which chronicled the chicanery at the 1936 Olympics, comes The White Bridge, which reveals more ugly truths about America from the ‘20‘s to the early ‘60‘s. Part thriller, part expose`, part gothic romance, part farce, part rant, Rubenstein brings dark truths to the light of day. He breathes life into famous figures long gone, puts words in their mouths, calls to account the perpetrators of injustice and collaborators of evil. It is often said: “It could never happen here.” Well, it did, and Rubenstein has captured it in grand style through the eyes of flapper/reporter Ginger Lee Smythe, determined solve the murder of a friend, and athlete/soldiers angered by the Nazi blight.
Good luck, Bob.
My schedule was thrown off today - to good effect. I accompanied Arlynn on a trip to the doctor. She is thrilled she doesn't have to take another mammogram for at least three months. Pressed for time, I didn't set up shop until after three. I don't know what it was - maybe people are giddy that the rain has finally stopped - but I sold a bunch of books in half the time as usual. I even had to hustle over to the car for a woman who was hot for more books on knitting. Thanks, folks.
Are you ready for some football? NFL kicks off tonight, Saints at the Packers.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/7

New York City is showing signs of a return to the violence it suffered in the ‘90s. It’s claim to being the safest big city in America is seriously challenged. I wonder if the economic slump is at its root. During a recent eight day span there were 112 victims of gunshots, 25 died. 105 of the victims were minorities. All the shooters were minorities. And there is silence from Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, who leap to accuse policeman of murder before all evidence is analyzed. In a way, I feel sorry for them, as they are clueless in how to stop young black males from killing each other at such an alarming rate. Recently, while accompanying my friend Arlynn on a trip to the doctor, I witnessed a heated exchange between the passengers in cars ahead of us. A young man in the back seat of an SUV shaped his hand into the form of a revolver and pretended to fire. I found it hard not to jump to conclusions. If I were a black leader, I’d be tempted to come up with a slogan like: “Spite whitey - stay alive.” Even having a black president has failed to curb this cold indifference to life. Many times the intended target is missed and a bystander killed, the latest a 57-year-old woman sitting on her stoop minding her own business. And, of course, Mayor Bloomberg offered the same tired solution - more gun control. If guns are really the problem, why isn’t the murder rate as high among whites or Asians? Such ugly questions need to be addressed.
It seems the President’s call for civility is being ignored by his supporters. In a speech in the wasteland that Detroit has become, Teamsters President Jimmy Hoffa said: “…Let’s take these sons of bitches out.” The Motor City has always been run by Democrats. Is Hoffa angry with them? And Vice President Biden also chimed in recently in his inimitable way: “You are the only ones who can stop the barbarians at the gates.” He means those of us who hope to curb the dangerous entitlement mentality created by advocates of unlimited government, who ask: How much is enough, how much is fair? Unions are still needed. Many citizens are terrified of standing on their own, especially in an economy like this. But the past few decades have shown that greed is universal, not confined to the rich. I often see a bumper sticker that reads something like: “Union and Proud of It.” I wonder what would happen if I put one on my car that read: “Non-Union and Proud of It.” I would not risk it for fear of vandalism. One of my most shameful moments came in the my first year of a four-year run as a paraprofessional, a pretentious title for a teacher’s aide, at John Dewey High School in Brooklyn. A woman, smiling broadly, asked if I would like to join the union. When I said no her smile disappeared and she said: “You will join. We will have one hundred percent representation.” I will always be ashamed of not having challenged her. I suppose she would deem the 39% of union members who voted for John McCain in 2008 as traitors.
The soft rain sent me to the shelter of the viaduct, which is not nearly as gloomy since a crew threw a coat of paint on it last week. Thanks to the great-grandma who bought some children's books.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/6

I’m stuck in the apartment today due to rain. An inch per hour is expected at times. Tomorrow doesn’t look much better. To prevent climbing the walls, I’ve started reading JT LeRoy’s The Heart is Deceitful Above All Things. Pretty grim so far. I hate any cruelty to children, even in fiction.
I also decided it was time to learn a new song on the guitar. It’s been about two years since I learned Smokey Robinson’s Shop Around, one of about 80 I play. These days I’m so anxious to go out and sell books that my musicianship gets short shift. Although it was never good, it has deteriorated the past few years. One good thing, my hip has healed to the point where I can assume my most comfortable playing position, right leg crossed over left, back straight. I'm even able to hustle across the street without feeling my bones are about to separate. It was about this time last year that it began to hurt.
I chose to learn Sway, composed in 1953 by Pablo Beltran Ruiz. Dean Martin did a version a year later that rose to #16. The superb English lyrics were written by Norman Gimbel, who had several huge hits: Canadian Sunset, Andy Williams’ first #1; the English lyrics to Antonio Carlos Joabim’s jazz standard The Girl from Ipanema; and Roberta Flack’s smash hit Killing Me Softly with His Song.  He is a member of the Songwriters Hall of Fame.
Like many Latin songs, Sway is in A minor. It’s Spanish title is “Quien Sera?” The chords are not hard, but there are many quick changes. I really enjoy the Pussycat Dolls version (2004). Nicole Scherzinger’s sultry vocal is spot on. The imagery is beautiful. The rhythm is dreamy and romantic. Doesn’t everyone fantasize about such connection?
Thanks to www.guitarguy.com - which has provided the chords and lyrics to several of the standards I’ve learned. Unfortunately, the site doesn’t include Cole Porter’s You’re the Top, which I would like to do in the style of Stacy Kent’s bouncy, jazzy version, although I doubt I’d be able to handle the no doubt sophisticated chords at the required speed.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/5

The rain has held off so far. The forecast for the rest of the week is grim. The way business has been lately, I'm not sure it matters. I sold only an Ultimate Sinatra CD, which I burned on my PC, and I went way down in price to make sure I walked away with something today. Later, when the woman who has donated dozens of books on knitting visited and asked if I were interested in other stuff, I told her not to bring too much. She returned an hour later with five Stephen King novels, three of them pristine hardcovers, and a Rachel Ray cookbook, and two other horror novels, but it won't matter if people are not buying. Thanks, folks.
I've known Antonin, Mr. Su Do Ku, for a few years. He always stops and asks how things are going. He is the author of two self-published books. He is a retired engineer who has lived all over the world. I would guess he has a very high IQ. Today he took out his iphone and showed me how a games site has cited his books as references. He wrote his first in England in 1981 and had it published through a printer. It's only 18 pages and long out of print. He has no idea how the website found out about it. As he showed me a picture of the cover, I noted what I thought was a pseudonym - Hans Hollenstein. It turns out that is his real name, not Antonin. I assume he didn't trust me when we first met. He frequently talks about identity theft, how easy it is. He even mentioned it today. I wasn't angry or insulted. I didn't call him on it. I let it go. No harm came from it. After all, what do we really know about each other besides the fact that we enjoy each other's company for a few minutes every now and then. In his heavy Swiss accent, he pronounces my name Wick. He's a good guy. Caution is barely a fault. I was unable to find that site and I don't remember the title of the book, but his second is: Creative Sudoku: Where Logic Meets Creativity. It's listed as "out of print" on Amazon.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/3

I was listening to Rita Cosby on the radio yesterday. She was shocked at a recent poll that revealed that one in seven Americans believe the bombing of the World Trade Center was an inside job. Most of those who believe it are young. I don't know what it is about youth that makes one so cynical, perhaps a clash of hormones, but I remember being intrigued by the theory that FDR allowed the bombing of Pearl Harbor to justify a military build up that would end the Great Depression - and that happened nine years before my birth. And, of course, I swallowed every conspiracy theory concerning the JFK assassination. Now, older and, hopefully, wiser, I think anyone over the age of 30 who believes any of our past Presidents would have ordered mass murder isn't far from certifiable. As far as the JFK assassination is concerned, I have not been convinced that anyone but Lee Harvey Oswald was involved. Only one aspect makes me suspect differently - Jack Ruby. Why would he kill Oswald? We will probably never find out. Almost everyone of importance from that era has died. Whenever PBS shows a new documentary on the subject, I tell myself I'm not going to watch it, and I wind up riveted to the TV. For some cockamamie reason, conspiracy theories are fun. I remember how alive our dorm was during the hoax about Paul McCartney's death. The Beatles denied there was a hoax, but a lot of us didn't believe them, even though it would have been impossible to keep such a death secret. Is it so hard to believe the entire phenomenon had started with two fans talking and evolved into the fantastic? We actually called an operator in England and asked to be connected to a number that was supposedly on the cover of Magical Mystery Tour. She thought we were nuts and said something that began: "You Yanks...." And then there are those who deny the Holocaust, even though General Eisenhower had ordered pictures taken to prevent the inevitable denial he foresaw. What a world.
Bad News Billy visited the floating book shop today. No sooner had he said he was $2000 in arrears on his rent than he started rooting around for books for his grandkids. He chose four. I didn't want any money, but he insisted. Even though it was a token sum, I felt guilty. He has treated me so well. I forced an oldies CD I'd burned on him. He drove away blasting Rick Nelson's Travelin' Man, a big smile on his face. It was good to see.
A young woman bought Anita Diamint's The Red Tent, a novel with a biblical basis. And a young Russian mom, an artist, bought some books for her kids. She asked about setting up shop on the street. I told her to go for it.
Thanks, folks.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/2

Jonathan Kellerman, a Ph.d in Clinical Psychology, is a best-selling author of mysteries. He has written more than 40 books, including non-fiction in his field of expertise. He has won an Edgar, the genre's equivalent of an Oscar. His wife is novelist Faye Kellerman. They are Orthodox Jews. Most of his mysteries feature the same central character. I sampled one of his stand alone books, The Conspiracy Club. I doubt it is representative of his best work. The story is routine except for the depiction of the hero's work as a hospital psychologist who comforts the seriously ill. In fact, the murderer is a minor character, which I liked, as there are more than enough serial killers on TV, in film and in literature these days. The lives of the "club" members were more interesting than the maniac's. The narrative is rife with the run on sentences employed by mystery writers eager to keep a story moving swiftly. I don't mind them. The author uses a lot more commas than I do. They can be bedeviling. At times I sense the question of their usage about to dog me into paralysis by analysis, but I quickly shake it off, remembering the old adage: "When in doubt, leave it out," which I adhere to 95% of the time. In the other instances I succumb in an effort to achieve clarity. The hardcover of The Conspiracy Club is 376 pages, but reads more like 300, as there are blank pages between many chapters. On a scale of five, I rate it two-and-a-half. Please remember that I'm not a fan of mystery novels, so I may be under-rating any I review. I love cinema mysteries, particularly film noir, which require less than a two-hour commitment rather than a full week's. What I enjoy reading about most is the inner lives of people to whom I can relate. 
I brought out a beautiful edition of The Lion King today and, as I expected, it sold, as did another Disney book, another on knitting and two thrillers. Thanks, ladies.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/1

The mystery of the disappearance of Waj's gyro stand may have finally been solved. A gentleman told me he believes the business had lost customers since it raised its prices. A similar stand near Coney Island Hospital, eight blocks away, also run by Middle Easterners, has held their prices steady, five for a full plate, three for a wrap. And they have adapted to the clientele, adding Latin touches to their dishes, allowing people more choices. As usual, the modern adage rules: Follow the money.
I learned more about my most faithful customer, Susan. She spends her winters in Thailand, where her sons relocated years ago. One, a successful engineer, longed for a career change. He loved scuba diving and, when an opportunity in that field presented itself there, he took it. A few years later his brother followed and set up a law practice. Each married a Thai woman. Unfortunately, the first passed away suddenly. Susan still feels that crushing loss, as any parent would. Her grandchildren beg her to move there permanently. She won't because Medicare is not transportable. The kids go to an international school where over 50 nationalities are represented, even more than in a typical New York City school these days. She has been stockpiling books for them, including two more she purchased today.
For the second day in a row I brought out a Stephen King novel, The Tommyknockers, for the first time, and had it pounced on immediately. I also was paid by a nice Russian woman whom I let have two cook books on credit a few days ago. She had purchased from the floating bookshop in the past, so I believed she was good for it. Of course, I viewed it as business strategy. And what did I have to lose? The books don't cost me anything. All except mine have been donated.
Thanks, folks.
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