Never Mind
From foxnews.com, edited by yours truly: MSNBC host Lawrence O’Donnell kicked off his show Wednesday night by apologizing for running an unverified report that directly tied President Trump’s finances to Russia. He’d been threatened with a lawsuit. He should have used Emily Litella’s tag: “Never mind.”
I’ve often said no book is ever finished. An author can get to 99%, but additions will pop into his head from time to time. It happened to me on my morning walk, as it has so many times in the past and probably will again in the future. I recalled a fond memory of my late boss at the Exchange, affectionately known as Fat Joe, so full of life, greeting me in Brooklyn Italian as “Mister Chinga Sawd.” I laughed out loud, as did he. That translates to Mister Five Cents, and may be viewed as a metaphor for cheapskate or a simple term of endearment. One of my novels is titled Five Cents, the story of a Vietnam veteran’s return to Michigan, where I went to college, and his readjustment to civilian life. At one point he visits NYC. It occurred to me that I should have had an old timer passing him on the street, spotting a nickel, picking it up, smiling and saying: “Cinco soldi.” Self-publishing through Amazon, a writer is free to make any changes at any time, but I wonder if I should leave well enough alone. That particular snippet adds color but nothing to the theme. On the other hand, there are two changes I’ve contemplated for Present and Past that I view as solid. One pertains to an incident at Yankee Stadium. It is drawn from real life, an account a friend revealed, probably embellished, that involved Bucky Dent. One day it occurred to me — duh! — that it would work better if the character had recounted it from a seat at the bar rather than having had the protagonist-bartender witness it at the game. The second change is more important and involves character development. When the protagonist leaves a swingers club, I should have had him look back, freeze in place, conjure an incident from the past and wonder if it had motivated him to participate in group sex. Maybe I’ll address those issues after I’m done with what I believe will be my last book, on which I will resume work on October 1st and hope to have ready by January. Or maybe I should just say never mind.
What a spectacular day weather-wise, the brisk breeze along Avenue Z refreshing and invigorating. My thanks to the young woman who approached as I was setting up shop and left with The Confession by John Grisham, Solo by Jack Higgins, Insomnia and Cell by Stephen King, and The Assassin by Stephen Coonts; and to the young man who purchased Edith Hamilton’s classic Mythology; and to the Quiet Man, who purchased Aunt Dimity’s Christmas by Nancy Atherton; and to Lynn, who donated six more Stephen King’s; and to local porter Rob, who donated a cache of mostly DVD copies. He suffered a pinched nerve recently and, when he visited the Park Avenue doctor, told him up front that he couldn’t afford expensive treatment. The man said not to worry about it — he would accept whatever the union offered in payment. That brought a tear to the tough guy’s eye. He was limping today, as yesterday he’d taken three shots to various spots of his anatomy that numbed his foot.
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