I opened the floating book shop an hour later than usual. As expected, my friend passed her cardiograms with flying colors. Needless to say, she is pissed at her regular doctor's associate, who threw a scare into her without even taking her blood pressure or having enough imagination to discern that a person with a rare neurological disorder is vulnerable to unusual swelling. She underwent the tests so she wouldn't obsess about it, which she tends to do about anything important. It's just another example of how tax-payer money is squandered on unnecessary procedures.

I had a visit from Morty, a retired salesman who recently completed a month of radiation treatment on a growth beneath his jaw. His appetite is returning. He is now able to consume more than Ensure. In fact, he went to the lobby of the apartment building nearby to pick up a flier that had a coupon for a tuna sandwich at Dunkin' Donuts. Finding discounts, saving money, is his passion. I sense he has loads of it stashed away. As he approached he waved a newspaper clipping at me and said: "You thought you'd be able to slip this past me?" It was the article about me from the Bay News.

The sky has darkened. Thunder is crackling. It looks like the heat wave is about to be broken. I probably should log off and pull the plug from the laptop, but I'll wait a few more minutes to see if the lightning is a serious threat.

I went with Plan B today. Returning from my morning walk, knowing the storm was predicted for late afternoon, I moved my car from beneath a tree and to an open spot on the opposite side of the street more than a block away from where I usually park. This meant I wouldn't be able to display as many books as usual at the floating shop. I took about 20 from my apartment, 12 of them in Russian. I left a little earlier than usual, 10:30, hoping to take full advantage of the shade. It paid off, as I sold four books to graduates of the eastern bloc. Several people called me by my first name. I expect they read the article about me in the Bay News. One joker I see every day, who resembles a homeless person, addressed me in Italian. The only disappointment was that Lev, one of my best customers, found nothing to his liking. Just after one PM, the sunlight began to encroach on the space. I packed up, went home and splashed my head and face with cold water, then went to the library, where I spent an hour fighting to concentrate on reading while others engaged in normal conversational tones. Even though the discussion was about old movies, I was pissed. I don't remember people talking so loudly in the library while I was growing up.   

I was rooting around with the remote control last night, searching for something interesting to watch. PBS came through, as it so often does. Photographer Robert Knight was profiled in a documentary called Rock Prophecies. The son of a Baptist minister who failed to shelter him from the devil's music, he has taken photographs of all the guitar greats. There are approximately 200,000 pictures in his archive, whose value is estimated at 3.5 million dollars. These days he's interested in publicizing artists he senses might break big. He found a boy from a small town, Tyler Dow Bryant. Is he the next the next guitar god? Judge for yourself. Here's a clip from youtube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCUNJtJJv3Q&feature=related

And here's Knight's most iconic photograph:

Here's a quick quiz: which is the most valuable sports franchise in the world? I was shocked at the answer, which will be below.

In terms of temperature, it was the hottest round of golf Cuz and I have played this season. Last night's heavy thunderstorms slowed the track down considerably. There was no extra roll to shots. I really messed up the second hole. I was in the fairway, 120 yards out and chunked two consecutive short irons, left a pitch a few feet short of the green, and walked away muttering. I then rallied, parring four of the next five holes, only to throw it all away with double bogie on eight and a triple on the par-three ninth, a hole which has been so kind to me over the years and which I've completely butchered two weeks in a row. I was pretty demoralized, especially when my drive on ten landed behind a tree root. I feared the next shot would pop straight into the air. It did, caromed off a branch of the big tree, and landed behind me. Golf can be a cruel mistress. I'm sure Cuz wanted to laugh but he held it back. On the long par-four twelfth, I hit what looked like a beautiful pitch right at the flag, which was on the upper tier of the green. It lost steam about a foot from the plateau and rolled all the way to the lower corner, and I let out an MF at the top of my lungs. I three-putted and did so at the next hole as well. By then I was suicidal. Cuz, on the other hand, was chipping and putting phenomenally, making up for his poor ball-striking, especially off the tee. It looked like he was going to smoke me, when suddenly I rallied, making three five-footers down the stretch, coming in at 89. And Cuz had the cruelty of the game bite him hard, finishing with two Mickeys (Mantle), sevens, that is, for a 92. One can't get too high or too low on the course. There are ups and downs, no matter the skill level of the player. An even keel is the best approach. Cuz exemplifies this. I, on the other hand.... I thank our playing partners, Jeff and Kevin, for putting up with me.

Fortunately, the cloud cover and breeze negated the heat, but the humidity was draining out there today. I was fortunate to attract a buyer immediately, who spotted Suzi Orman's Women & Money, which I'd displayed prominently. An early sale always goes a long way to lessening the feeling of futility the endeavor engenders. I sold a sci-fi novel in Russian to an elderly repeat customer, who I sensed was merely being kind. He didn't seem too thrilled with the selection. An elderly woman donated a handsome illustrated copy of Robin Hood geared toward young readers. Only problem is, do kids even know who that medieval figure is? Is there a video game about him? He robbed from the rich and gave to the poor, unlike the Monty Python character Dennis More, who "robbed from the poor and gave to the rich - stupid bitch!"

Even though I didn't sell any of my own books, the day was a success, as I sold my literary angel January (Victoria) Valentine's romance novel, Love Dreams, to a young woman who asked what I had in the genre. Thanks, miss. And thanks to Munsie, who said she really enjoyed the article about me in the Bensonhurst version of the Brooklyn newspaper.

I had another odd, vivid dream last night. In it, I was in bed and someone, probably my mom, was moving the quilt in the area of my feet. Then I heard an announcement over a loudspeaker. I approached a window and saw a repair shop set up in the driveway shared by the Mazzos and Venerusos. When I awoke it took me a moment to realize I was in Sheepshead Bay and not back in my old bedroom on Bay 37th. I was completely baffled, finding none of the wish fulfillment that Freud insists is at the root of every dream. Perhaps it was simply a desire to return to youth. I expect the repair shop aspect was triggered by the episode of the PBS/BBC drama New Tricks I watched last night, which focused on a motorcycle gang using its shop to smuggle drugs.

I doubt the dream was triggered by the DVD I viewed, Largo Winch (2008), an international collaborative thriller about an adopted young man who inherits a fortune when his father is murdered. It was entertaining but familiar, beautifully shot and fast paced, moving so rapidly that the leaps in the plot didn't matter. It did have two memorable scenes: a leap from a cliff was especially exciting, as was the unique murder that set the story in motion. On a scale of five, three.

This week I have the honor of being profiled in the Brooklyn newspapers. My thanks to Sol, who led me to Eli Rosenberg, who wrote the article, and to Steve, the photographer. Here's the text, amended by my own comments:

Brownstone Brooklyn has the title for the borough’s most literary land around, but a Brooklynite who sells his books on the streets of South Brooklyn says you don’t need a fancy bookstore to be a respected writer — but you can’t stay home, either. “If you don’t go out and sell it yourself, I believe it’s going to get lost (seven million books listed at Amazon),” said Vic Fortezza, a Bensonhurst(grew up there, now in Sheepshead Bay) native who peddles his three (four books: three novels, one story collection. Close to the Edge is temporarily sold out) novels on the streets of Sheepshead Bay and Bensonhurst four (six) days a week, in addition to selling them online. “Of course I hope for a tipping point where people will be buying online all the time, but I enjoy talking to people on the street, and I’ve made a lot of friends, it’s nice.”

We've all heard the old saying: "It pays to shop." I ignored it in large part when I had good cash flow. Not so the past four years, when I've watched every nickel. I've dreaded July, when the car insurance bill is due, the biggest hit of the year, which I always paid in full to take advantage of the discount. I was shocked to find that Liberty Mutual was raising my rate from $1400 to $1800. I sent an email to verify no mistake had been. I'm 62, have never had an accident, and have had only one moving violation in 40+ years, an illegal left at 5th Av. & 86th St. days after the edict first went into effect. I have the absolute minimum coverage. An official for LM responded that since I'd filled out a survey that showed an increase in my driving, my rate was increased. I'd calculated the eight trips back and forth to the airports I'd made, forgetting that I didn't play golf for a year and a half because of hip pain, which greatly reduced my car usage, which has been about 2500 miles per year. Anyway, I went to Esurance for a quote, which came in at about $1400. All State, which I'd had prior to LM, came in at $1500. Then I tried Geico, which I figured would be in the same ball park. I was ecstatic when the six-month figure was $501, an annual saving of $400 to $800 on the other options. I was so surprised I feared I'd left something out and would be accused of fraud. I mean - how could there be such a discrepancy? Fortunately a friend who uses Geico assured me there was no mistake. She has more coverage than I do at the same price. And the contract was so easy to get done, all online. Even my request that the insurance cards be mailed was honored. I didn't have to ask a friend to print them out. I was using my printer so infrequently I decided not to replace it when it died. I've had little need for one since most publishing companies now accept, even demand, electronic submissions. I feel like I've found money.

I've had good luck on the stocks front too. Coca Cola was one of the first I bought, sometime in the early 90's. I asked the advice of one of the gold traders at the Exchange, Pat Fero, whose dad, if I remember correctly, used to drive a truck for the famous soda maker. He recommended it, saying something like: "It's just sugar and water - you can't eff that up." All I could afford was 30 at the time. I now have 94, and the company just announced a two-for-one split, which will take me to 188. The only thing that worries me is that when a previous split was announced many years ago, the entire market tanked and the action was scheduled. It would not surprise me if that happened now. I've been expecting a collapse for months.

Yesterday, conservative talk show host Mike Gallagher mentioned an interesting development concerning a movie star's mom. I got the following from NYPost.com, editing it a tiny bit. It illustrates how intolerant some liberals can be:

Brad Pitt’s mom, Jane, has faced a barrage of death threats and other slurs after writing to her local paper bashing President Obama and his positions on gay marriage and abortion.

I had a fun dream last night. I was riding the subway and seated next to me was none other than the lovely Tina Louise, the "movie star" among the odd group stranded on Gilligan's Island. She fell asleep and her head rested on my shoulder. When the train lurched suddenly, her face went to my lap and she shrieked. It's not hard to figure that the dream was grounded in lust, but I'm baffled as to why my mind chose the unfortunate Ms. Louise, beautiful though she was. True, her name did come up in conversation recently, but more than a week ago. Why hadn't my brain conjured Gina Lollobrigida or Sophia Loren or Raquel Welch or Gina Gershon, all of whom have a passing resemblance to the lust of my life, a certain Peggyann? I remember how amused I was when I first learned Peggy wasn't short for Margaret. Her parents had given her a little girl's name, apparently not envisioning the voluptuous beauty she would become. Life never ceases to amaze. Thanks, Tina. Sorry my warped mind made you part of my dreams.

Romance novelist Brenda Joyce, 49, must write in her sleep. She's had at least 44 novels and novellas published, and there are 14 million copies in print. I just finished Deadly Kisses (2006), the eighth in a series set in Manhattan in the early 1900's, featuring wealthy sleuth Francesca Cahill. Although I'm not a fan of the genre, I enjoyed the story and characters. It was over-written by my taste. Names are constantly used in dialogue, as if the reader were likely to forget who was conversing. In my experience, after greeting someone, I find I don't say the person's name again until the goodbye. Maybe that's just me. Dialogue is "exclaimed" when a simple said would be enough. Characters frequently gasp when speaking, another thing rare in real life but common, I suppose, in such fare. If the novel had been up for review at Pendant Publishing (Seinfeld), Elaine and Mr. Pittman might have had an argument about the use of exclamation points. The sex stops short of explicit. On a scale of five, three. Now I will allow the male chauvinist pig in me to emerge. Joyce, a native New Yorker, may be the foxiest female author ever. Here's a pic:

In a profile at IMDb, David Cronenberg is described as "The King of Venereal Horror" and "The Baron of Blood." I first learned of him in the early '80's, intrigued by the exploding heads in Scanners (1981). In Videodrome (1983), Deborah Harry did something creepy with a lit cigarette. That same year he did The Dead Zone, which remains my favorite adaptation of Stephen King. Crash came out in 1996. It featured something I'd never heard of and not sure even exists - characters deriving a sexual thrill from involvement in auto accidents. I don't think it was satire on how far society was willing to take sexuality, as the tone was deadly serious. A lot of my friends loved A History of Violence (2005). Although I found it satisfying viscerally, the protagonist was too much like a super-hero for the film to be taken seriously. Eastern Promises (2007), which focused on gangsters from former Soviet satellites, had an authenticity that gave me the willies. In one scene, the protagonist is vetted by made men, taking off his shirt to reveal elaborate tattoos of his dirty deeds. Last night I watched A Dangerous Method (2011), courtesy of Netflix. It is the story of two pioneers of psychology, Carl Jung and his mentor Sigmund Freud, who are connected by a female patient on the verge of madness, victim of abuse by her father. She eventually becomes a psychologist herself. It is a bold film in that it requires the viewer to listen carefully to the dialogue of the two famous men, who approach discussion with quiet intellectualism. They eventually have a falling out. Jung believes there is more to analysis than the sexual element that Freud found. The further I get from my peak sexuality, the more I agree with this. I also believe that dreams have broader meaning than the wish fulfillment that Freud diagnosed. Whenever I have a puzzling one, I try to find the wish behind it. It does not always work, so I suspect there is more to it. Science is always evolving. Michael Fassbender, Viggo Mortensen and Keira Knightley played the leads. Knightley injected needed vigor into the narrative. Without her, it would probably have been too dry to sit through. Still, it does not quite take off. On a scale of five, three.

I thank the four people who purchased books today at Bay Parkway & 85th, where Steve, a photographer for the Brooklyn weekly newspapers, showed and took pictures of the silly venture I call the floating book shop. His boss told me the article should be in the coming issue. I doubt it will increase sales any, but it is fun. You never know.

"He punked-out," we used to say in Brooklyn about someone who backed down from a tough task or a fight. That's what I did today regarding the floating bookshop, which I eschewed because of the heat and humidity. Man, am I getting soft. In high school, we had two practice sessions in such weather. When I trained for the marathon, I jogged ten miles in it. If the forecast is right, tomorrow will be the last day of the current heat wave, only 90 degrees - "a mere bag of shells," as Ralph Kramden would say. What will the accu-weather  real-feel be - 95? "Big deal," as Classie Freddie Blassie would say.

I had a real ginzo lunch at my sister's: tomato & muhtzarell, fried zucchini, and a thin slice of roast beef. Leftovers have piled up in her fridge since her grand-daughter Danielle arrived earlier in the week, craving delicacies that are hard to get in her neck of Jersey. As I was enjoying the feast, I learned that my eldest niece Isabel was due to fly out to Denver to visit her sister Tanya. She hadn't asked for a ride, feeling bad since I'd been back and forth umpteen times when her kids visited from Italy to say goodbye to their grandpa. The Sicilian in me wouldn't let her spend money on car service. Of course, I will someday ask for something in return, recalling the great line, of the many great ones from The Godfather: "Someday - and that day may never come - I will call on you to perform a service for me." When she finally gets a computer, she will be assigned to do reviews of my books, which she has all read.

Some days good things happen in bunches. I set up shop knowing people would be hurrying back to their AC's or backyard swimming pools to beat the heat, although it wasn't nearly as hot today as yesterday. I hadn't seen Morty, a retired salesman closing in on 80, in six weeks. He recently "graduated" from a program of radiation treatments on a growth in his jaw. Although he said he was still feeling a little shaky, he was his usual positive self. Welcome back, sir.

A while later a heavy set gentleman who visits about once a month overpaid for two paperbacks, a nice surprise I figured would be my only sale of the day - and I was almost right. As I was about to pack up, a young woman, who two weeks ago said she would return, finally got around to it. She debated whether to purchase A Hitch in Twilight or January Valentine's Love Dreams. January, who went by Victoria until she self-published the romance novel through her own Water Forest Press, sent me two copies about a month ago. She has published two of my novels: Adjustments & Killing, and twelve of my short stories in her magazines and anthologies. I was happy to try to sell her book. I feel I owe her. I was thrilled the young woman chose LD. I just sent January a payment through paypal. I can't wait to see her reaction.

I watched another of the music videos I made, this one circa '95, an eclectic mix of performers. It started on a high note, Bonnie Raitt doing the blues lament Love Me Like a Man, featuring dazzling guitar work that would put many men to shame. She may have used every blues lick ever invented. There was only one cut I had to fast-forward through, something by Sound Garden on SNL. There were several tracks by the Pretenders, all excellent, including their biggest hit, The Night in My Veins. The mis-named Cowboy Junkies did an unusually up tempo piece for them, Common Disaster. All of the other stuff I know by them is quiet. Bjork did her adorable big band-type song Ssssh! on The Tonight Show. During this period, Fox ran a show against SNL called Saturday Night Special that spotlighted rising music acts. Bush (not George) rocked out on Machinehead ("There's no sex in violence") and Tracy Bonham, whom I have not heard from since, did Mother Mother, a song about a struggling artist trying to keep the truth from her mom during a phone conversation, which I certainly relate to ("Everything's fine!"). Garbage did I'm Only Happy When It Rains, a terrific look into a warped mind ("Pour your misery down on me"). And Alice in Chains ended the run of SNS tunes with Again, which features a five-word alliteration ("help her heal her heart") that would attract any writer. The Sex Pistols, promoting their Filthy Lucre tour, sans original bassist Sid Vicious, showed up on Letterman and brought the house down with Pretty Vacant  ("And we don't care!"). Radiohead did a beautiful rendition of High and Dry on Leno ("Don't leave me high, don't leave me dry..."). The front man had a Protect Choice decal on the body of his guitar, which is forgivable only if it had something to do with the song. The guitarist of the leftist Rage Against the Machine also had to make a view known with a sticker: Arm the Homeless. I always found their politics ridiculous - and their performances riveting, including this one, Bulls on Parade. The biggest surprise on the tape was Celine Dion, who stepped out of character on Letterman, doing an unbelievable cover of Ike and Tina Turner's Mountain High, River Deep. I'm blown away every time I see it.  

Here's my choice for the highlight. A different version of Bonham's moment in sun. It may be the least artistic number on the tape, but it's charming and amusing:

"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.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government...."

And so began the greatest country the world has known - the idea, the experiment. Sure, we've had our sins, but far fewer than other nations, and none has worked harder to rectify them than America. Certain elites scoff at this, openly deride this great land and its people - and many of them are rewarded handsomely for it, behavior that would bring incarceration, even death in some places. I went through a period of similar cynicism in my youth. Eventually, I realized that I was dissatisfied with myself, overwhelmed by the enormity of life and looking at the problem without rather than within. We are a land of abundance, prosperous even in difficult economic times. Our poor are fat, not starving. Free education is available to anyone willing to make an effort. Every American citizen has an opportunity to better himself/herself. The responsibility resides with the individual. He must choose whether to become a ward of government or stand on his/her own. I have opted for the writer's life. I want no assistance from government, no grant, no housing, no Medicaid, no free cell phone or food stamps, although I'd probably qualify for all of that given what I earn these days. I want to be free, to stand on my own through success or failure. I am an American.

There's an interesting one-man show coming to Broadway: The Undisputed Truth, starring Mike Tyson, directed by Spike Lee. It seems an effort to rehabilitate his image. At one time Tyson was in the argument of greatest heavyweight of all-time. He struck fear into opponents and the general public until a relative unknown, Buster Douglas, flattened him in one of the greatest upsets in boxing history. From there his career and life began a downward spiral that included marriage/divorce to actress Robin Givens, a rape charge for which he did a stretch in prison, the chomping of Evander Holyfield's ear during a bout, and the bizarre tattooing of his face. If all humans are enigmas, he is among the most enigmatic. It's said that he reads extensively. I hope the show goes well. If memory serves, it has been a long time since he's been in trouble. I do not like one-man shows, perhaps because they remind me of school, which I hated, or because I spend so much time alone. I love interaction between characters. Still, this show seems to have potential as long as it's not done as spin or a rationale for despicable behavior. Although I believe he was railroaded on the rape charge, I have no doubt he forced himself on the woman, who was either ridiculously naive or looking for a payout. That was a long time ago, and we are all entitled to redemption. Maybe Mike Tyson has found it, but I wouldn't bet on it.

RIP Andy Griffith, TV legend, 86. Griffith had an amazing career, mostly on the small screen, but he did have two major roles in films. He played a yokel in the service comedy No Time for Sergeants (1958), which also had a run on Broadway and no doubt led to his role as Sheriff Andy Taylor in his eponymous series. His best work was as a cynical, megalomaniacal TV star in A Face in the Crowd, a performance that gave me the creeps. The Andy Griffith Show, which was re-dubbed Mayberry RFD for its final season in '68-'69, filmed 249 episodes. Matlock, which was so popular among senior citizens, filmed 195. Astonishing. He's finally on his way to Mount Pilot. Well done, sir.

After not playing golf at all last year due to concern about my right hip, two things have surprised me. One, the absence of pain (knock wood); two, my ball striking is no different than it was before the hiatus. In fact, it's a little better, and this despite the fact that we've lost five rounds to weather. I expected it to be the last thing to come around, especially since I'm now 62. Surprisingly, age has not yet become a factor. Although my chipping was decent today, I've been struggling with it since Cuz and I visited Ocean City about nine years ago. Don't ask me how it happened. All of a sudden I started hitting the ball with the edge of the club instead of the face, and it got into my head. I dreaded every chip shot and even began to use my putter from off the green. The psychology of golf is fascinating. The ball is just sitting there, waiting to be sent on its merry way. Somehow, the way is frequently errant. Today my ball-striking was above average, and my putting was below. I had only a single one-putt, and two three-putts, missing a pair of those dreaded two-footers that put so much pressure even on golfers having a friendly game sans wagers. I know what makes them so hard to sink. The mind says: "Don't you dare miss this." I shot 88, despite having 37 putts. Cuz, on the other hand, had a phenomenal round with the putter, sinking seven from ten to thirty feet. He struggled with his ball-striking but still ended with a respectable 90 because of his prowess with the flat stick. When we first started playing together in the 80's, I'd call him "laser" whenever he got on a roll with the putter. We resurrected the term today. To put into perspective, if he'd putted like I did today, he would have shot a 98. I felt at my best physically today. The lower humidity and two Ibuprofen had me feeling as close to young as I get these days. It was gorgeous out there, and we did not have to wait at any tee after the first hole. And the course has held up, despite the heat. Only the tee boxes are suffering. Still, they are a far cry from what they were 25 years ago, when many were bare and a big rock was needed to hammer a tee into the ground. Kudos to the crew.

The floating book shop will reopen tomorrow.

I thank Jack of Chase Bank, who purchased five more thrillers today, and the gentleman who overpaid for We the People, a history of America's most important documents. "We need this now more than ever," he said. "You're not kiddin'," I replied. "Don't worry, we'll get 'em in November," he assured. I hope he's right. Confidence is not inspired when a Supreme Court justice described as a conservative takes liberal positions.

I've now seen both the Swedish and American versions of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Which is better? I can't say. More than a year passed between viewings. Whose portrayal was better, Noomi Rapaci's or Rooney Mara's? Both were excellent, but I lean to Rapaci's, perhaps because it was my introduction to Stieg Laarsen's great protagonist, Lisabeth Stander. What I don't understand is why the second film was made at all. It doesn't bring much that is new to the story. I wonder if the producers considered bringing the action to the states instead of keeping it in Sweden. Were they restricted by the estate of Laarsen, who passed away from a massive heart attack in his early 50's? Strange. Speaking of strange, the opening credits were bizarre, backed with a cover of Led Zeppelin's Immigrant Song. I thought they were ridiculous. A couple of online reviewers deemed them ingenious. Fortunately, the second film ended in the black, and it was a wonderful showcase for Mara's talent.

Whenever immigration is argued, the Genius Visa is mentioned. The government recently awarded one to Canadian Shera Bechard, who was Playmate of the Month in November 2010. She qualified as a result of a photo sharing web site she developed, Frisky Friday. All red-blooded American males welcome her to these shores. Here's a pic: