Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/30

There is more campus comedy to report. In an editorial in today's New York Post, Heather MacDonald writes of a recent incident at the University of California Berkeley. A group of Republicans students lampooned Affirmative Action by hosting a Bake Sale wherein whites were charged two dollars, Latinos a buck and blacks seventy-five cents. Women received a twenty-five cent discount. Of course, this aroused howls from the "oppressed" of that sprawling campus of the privileged. Nearby, a Gender and Women's Studies major held a sign protesting the exclusion of gays from the discount structure. Love it! Kudos to the group and to Ms. MacDonald. Thanks for brightening my day.
Speaking of diversity, for the first time in a year or so I set up shop in Park Slope, one of the country's most diverse areas, many of its residents of the hipster variety. I'm glad to say it upheld its reputation as one of the most literate as well. I knew it would be a good day immediately when a young woman bought two books on the philosophy of Aristotle. Smiling, she showed me a print-out on Plato she was carrying in her purse. A young man later purchased The Dialogues of Plato. How refreshing that some young people are still reading serious work on their own time. I'm able to sell  a number of classics because of the donation two years ago of a hardcover set of them by Tereza, a Russian woman. I only recently considered offering the duplicates on the street. Today I also sold The Useful Pig, a cookbook, the last two books on knitting, a hardcover fantasy trilogy, a book on finance and several mysteries. Thanks, folks. Alas, no one was interested in any of my own books. Maybe tomorrow, although the forecast is again iffy. I guess one beautiful day a week is all that can expected right now. I plan on returning to Park Slope once a week as long as the results make the hassle worth it. There is no quick way to get there, and parking is a nightmare. Coney Island Avenue was clear today because the many Jewish-owned businesses along it were closed for the holiday.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/29

I ran out of luck today catching the window between rain showers. We in the northeast are stuck in an ugly weather pattern. We are not seeing much sun. It sucks.
There is a new nominee in the Academic Douchebags Hall of Fame. It's awful crowded. A new wing is being built. Here is an excerpt culled from the newsten.net website:
VACAVILLE, CA - When Taylor McGinley sneezed in her health class at Will C. Wood High School a few weeks ago a student replied with "God, bless you," but it's what teacher Steven Cuckovich said after the sneeze that now has students questioning the teacher's agenda.
"(Cuckovich) said, 'Do you think that girl is evil, do you think the evil spirits are coming out of her?' And the guy that said "bless you" was like 'No, I was just doing what I was supposed to do when somebody sneezes, not trying to be rude,'" Taylor said, referring to the incident.
McGinley said Cuckovich never mentioned or referred to the expression again, but in Erica Fagan's class Cuckovich is deducting points from students' grades if someone said "bless you."
"The first time (the student) did it (Cuckovich) took 25 points off of everybody in the class's grade for one person saying it and then somebody did it the next day and he did it again," Fagan said.
According to Fagan, Cuckovich told the students sneezing and saying "bless you" is a distraction and takes time out of learning.

Our stellar porter, Frankie, has been sporting new sneakers lately. Last week he suffered a cut to the leg that has numbed a couple of his toes and left him unable to wear work boots. To my surprise, he is entitled not only to full medical coverage of his treatment but cash compensation as well. This was the third time in his long tenure he was injured on the job. He has a scar on his forearm suffered while he was clearing debris on the roof. His second injury provided a big pay day. His arm got caught in the door of a malfunctioning elevator, injuring his shoulder. He's a little guy, probably no more than 140 pounds. The elevator was replaced, he went on disability. He split the proceeds with his lawyer, walking away with $11,500. He's been smiling even more than usual lately. He has a big family, including at least one handicapped child, and can use the money.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/28

The National Hockey League, which is not usually interesting until March, is bucking trend. Wayne Simmonds of the Philadelphia Flyers has been at the center of two controversies. Simmonds, who is black, was the target of a bigot, or a drunk, who tossed a banana peel onto the ice during an exhibition game in London, Ontario. The young man, who is said to be remorseful (aren't they all once caught? Michael Vick?) has been identified and faces a fine up to $2000 and, possibly, indictment for a hate crime. The latter is ridiculous overkill, but to be expected in an age of selective outrage. Simmonds was a man about it, saying such behavior is to be expected. Life being the fascinating circus it is, Simmonds found himself in trouble a week later when he allegedly berated an opponent with an anti-gay slur, a charge he denies. The PC police have come out in force, demanding an apology and punitive action. The NHL office says the evidence is inconclusive. I guess lip reading is inadmissible in its court. A ban on anti-gay language has been suggested. Okay, ban it and, while you're at it, fine or suspend any player who disparages mothers and sisters and uses any foul language, behavior that has existed forever in the emotional combustion that is sport. Everyone in the world except hip hop artists, who have made millions using the N-word and F_____t, should face fine and or hate crime indictment for uttering those terrible words. The logic of the adherents of political correctness would demand action on the spontaneous speech of some and the ignoring of the premeditated of others. They want semi-free speech. People have a right and a need to vent. A good person will apologize. A bad person is not likely to be changed, more likely to fake contrition. Free speech can be and is a bitch sometimes. It's supposed to be. How often do we get the urge to choke a public figure who makes political comments contrary our own? Good people grin and bear it or offer a civil counter argument. When I worked the commodity pits and podiums, I was occasionally excoriated in the vilest terms by traders, sometimes by people I really liked. It hurt, but it made me a stronger, better person, as all trials do. I was guilty of disgraceful speech there myself at times. Husband and wives say awful things to each other. I flush with shame when I think of some of the things I said to my parents. It's called being human. Legislate this.
I said the b-word and I'm not apologizing. I know you're strong enough to handle it.
Thanks to Cabbie, who bought six thrillers today.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/27

No luck on the street today. Here's a short story of 700+ words, titled Hip Hop:

   Kenya Williams, eight years old, was out of bed before anyone else in her family, even Grandpa. It was Easter Sunday. She had a mission of mercy to carry out. She dressed quietly and tiptoed past her mama’s bedroom. She dared not wake her new daddy, who was mean. She’d had several new daddies the past few years. None had loved her the way her real daddy had or Grandpa did. Although she knew her daddy was with God in heaven, she missed him terribly, as did her brother, who hardly spoke any more.
    She opened and closed the apartment door carefully, backpack in hand. The streets were deserted, as it was just before dawn. The bad boys had finally gone home. She had waited until their voices died down. She went into the alley and to the back of the building, where her Grandpa, the super, kept the small cage.
   “Good morning, Jesus,” she said to a plump white rabbit.
   Her Grandpa had objected to the name, saying it was disrespectful, and told her to choose another. She had, but still thought of the rabbit as Jesus. She lifted it gently from the cage, petted it tenderly and placed it in the backpack. It remained as docile and trusting of her as always.
   “This is the day of your eman…., emanci…. – your freedom.”
   Her brother had made her cry, saying the rabbit would be their Easter dinner. Her Grandpa immediately came to her comfort. When she asked if it were true, she could tell by his hesitation and tone that it was. She recalled how the rabbits had “run away” the past two Easters. Her mother had told her they were having chicken. No wonder the birds had looked so odd.
   The day was going to be glorious, the sky brightening to a pristine blue, not a cloud in sight. Kenya smiled, basking in life’s wonders. She did not understand why others did not see the beauty of the world, why everybody was always so mad. She hurried to the park, breathless, surprised at how heavy Jesus was, at how much he had grown the past year. She wished she would grow as fast. She went into the woods and opened the backpack. Jesus remained in it obediently. She took the rabbit in her hands and kissed its nose.
   “Will you remember me when Mama brings us here?” she said, looking into its eyes, which stared blankly. “I’ll look for you.”
   She was startled by raucous laughter, and cradled Jesus protectively to her chest. Ahead, milling around benches, she spotted a group of bad boys. There were bottles at their feet. Soon a boom box was blaring. “The devil’s music,” her daddy had called it. He’d always been chasing boys from the front of the house. She did not understand why the music was so different from the sweet records her Grandpa was always playing, from what she would be hearing in church later today. She so wanted to be in that choir.
   She set Jesus down and pointed him in the opposite direction of the bad boys. The rabbit took a labored step and another, then a hip-hop, and then began a hippity-hop. Kenya was amazed at how boldly the white coat stood out in the surroundings. Jesus seemed like an angel. She had to tear herself away. She was unable to resist a final glance.
   “Bye. I love you.”
   Head down, she left the park, tears flowing down her cheeks.
   Free of his cage, the rabbit moseyed along, sniffing, exploring, circling, covering ground.
   “What’s that?” said a young man in gangsta garb, springing from a bench, switching off the boom box.
   One of his companions jumped to his feet, pulling a handgun from his belt. “Target practice.”
   A shot rang out. Outside the park, Kenya, weeping, came to an abrupt halt, listening. It was the same sound that had killed her daddy, soaked his white shirt red in an instant, as she sat on the sidewalk drawing with chalk he’d bought her. Hoots and hollers ensued. She broke into a sprint and did not look back.

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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/26

It was a quiet day on the street. Thanks to the Russian woman who purchased a number of books on knitting. Only two are left. Tomorrow I'll see if I'll have the same good luck with those on needlepoint, which were donated by my friend Arlynn.
As I was standing at the floating bookshop daydreaming, I was roused by an argument nearby. An Asian woman was giving it to a lady bus driver. She did not have exact change, ten quarters, or a MetroCard, so she demanded to be able to board with three one dollar bills. She wouldn't take no for an answer, finally slipping the money into a space against the windshield and storming to a seat. The driver surrendered. Hail to common sense.
In the first three weeks of the season the NFL is again showing why it is the best business sports model. The smallest market team, Green Bay, seems poised to make another strong run at the Super Bowl, and two teams that have struggled for years, Detroit and Buffalo, are 3-0. Love it.
Today is the anniversary of the birth of one of America's greatest composers, George Gershwin. The title Rhapsody in Blue may not ring a bell, but its dynamic opening and closing has been used in commercials and films, to great effect by Woody Allen in Manhattan ("I think people should mate for life - like pigeons - and Catholics.") Gershwin also composed An American in Paris, whose opening strands would also be familiar to most. And he created the folk opera Porgy and Bess (1935), based on the novel by DuBose Heyward, for which his older brother Ira wrote the lyrics, which reveal latter's genius, particularly in the beautiful Summertime and the brilliant It Ain't Necessarily So ("Dey tells all you chillun De debble's a villun"). Tragically, George died of a brain tumor at 38, depriving the world of who knows what musical wonders. Ira went on to write such standards as The Man That Got Away, which Judy Garland immortalized.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/25

Now that the weather has cooled I will be setting up shop occasionally outside the Dolphin Gym at 24th Avenue and 86th Street. It looked like a bad decision for the first two-and-a-half hours today, then Donna came along and bought A Hitch in Twilight. As soon as I said the stories were inspired by the work of Alfred Hitchcock and Rod Serling, she was hooked. This broke a 49 day drought in sales of my own books. It is copy 100 of Hitch, counting five web sales, two of which were Kindle. For some reason I almost always sell one of mine there, and few of any other books, the exact opposite of other spots. And to show what a fluke a street sale is, how it's a matter of the right person at the right time passing, Donna lives in Williamsburg, an hour-and-a-half train ride away. She was in the neighborhood to get her haircut. Her stylist, a Malaysian woman, lost her job when her shop closed. It used to cost Donna $150. Now the woman charges her only ten, and Donna tips her thirty. And it is well worth it - her hair looked great. The stylist and her husband work long hours, as their child has Spina Bifida.
Donna grew up dyslexic. When she was a sophomore in high school her dad took her to an Evelyn Wood speed reading clinic. I don't know if the business still exists. Ads for it used to run regularly on the radio. It worked like a charm for Donna. She earned a Masters and now reads five books a week! "You should see the looks I get from people who see me reading," she said. In the winter she goes to an independent bookstore near Broadway-Lafayette in Manhattan, buys coffee and sits there for hours, reading. And her taste is exquisite, when I offered her other books as a gift, she chose John Milton's Paradise Lost and Henry David Thoreau's On Walden Pond. Thank you, ma'am. It's so odd. I'm not religious, but every time I sell one of my books I'm so grateful I'm tempted to drop to my knees and make the sign of the cross.
I'm shocked the Giants beat the Eagles, who have had their number for a long time. I was expecting a blow out the other way. Given the free agent losses the team incurred and the season-ending injuries it has suffered, I doubted they would win more than six games this year. I thought: "So what?" After all, I've seen them win three championships since 1986. It's only three games into the season, and the NFL's power structure seems to change every few weeks, but right now it looks as if I over-rated the Eagles, who I expected to waltz to the division title and perhaps the Super Bowl. Michael Vick haters must be in heaven.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 9/24

   Whew! The debris from that 20-year-old satellite fell into a remote part of the Pacific Ocean. What a relief. The odds of being struck by it were astronomical, of course, one in thousands, except, according to one of New York Post sports quipster Hondo's fans, for film-maker Michael Moore, whose odds were 50-50.
   The publisher of A Hitch in Twilight has come up with a promotional plan for his stable of writers. Each of us is to submit a bio, and we will all post each other's on various websites. This is mine:
   I grew up speaking English and Sicilian dialect. Don’t know which came first. At St. Mary’s I was “the boy in the third row staring into space,” tuning out the Principal, who was visiting our class. I would sleepwalk through my first 30 years, baffled by the bittersweet mystery of life. Heck, I still may be sleepwalking. At Lafayette High School I was #72, right guard on the ‘66 team, the weakest link on a fine squad. At Western Michigan University I faked my way to a degree in Education. I hid behind the persona of football coach for six years, until a November night when I began a novel, Five Cents, imagining the plight of an average Vietnam veteran, not the psycho Hollywood version. That began a 20-year jag that produced nine novels, two screenplays, two plays and about 60 short stories, more than 50 of which have been published. I am fascinated by the theme of man struggling to live a good life in a world where temptation beckons at every turn. For four years I was a teacher’s aide at John Dewey High School, where I met a woman I still think about each day. I tended bar for a year, then worked at the Commodity Exchange for nearly 25 years, a square peg learning not to be afraid of the world amidst the screaming of traders out to score big. It was there that I met the one who got away. In 2000 I self-published Close to the Edge - ever wonder what makes someone go off the deep end? In 2008 Adjustments, which chronicles my football experiences, was published by my literary angel, Victoria Valentine, of Water Forest Press. In 2009 A Hitch in Twilight, inspired by my fascination with the work of Rod Serling and Alfred Hitchcock, was published by All Things That Matter Press. These days I promote/sell my books on the streets of Brooklyn, and continue to submit manuscripts.

It was another gloomy day on the east coast, but at least there was a rainless window that allowed me to sell some books. Thanks to Bad News Billy, Jack, and the young man who was fascinated by L. Ron Hubbard's Bible of Scientology, Dianetics.
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