The Tropicana Motel

I put on my walking shoes and knee brace (sigh), peed, and headed over to check out the Tropicana Motel on Santa Monica Boulevard.

This should be cool!

Pitching great Sandy Koufax bought the motel in 1962 to supplement his Los Angeles Dodgers pay. 

He put his name on the place, sure that out-of-town fans would grab the motel’s 74 rooms, each with a kitchenette.

Koufax at his motel

Oops, that didn’t work as planned!  Ball four! 

Location, location, location!

Just as Koufax made the investment, the 1960s rock revolution exploded on nearby Sunset Strip with all its nightclubs:  The Troubadour, the Whisky A Go Go, Pandora’s Box,  Gazzari’s, London Fog, etc.

So what Koufax actually ended up with was one big party and crash pad that turned the Tropicana into the Chelsea Hotel of the West.  As noted by one writer, “Under the Trop’s jungle-like foliage there were orgies, murders, suicides, over-doses, love triangles, marriages and drunken brawls on a daily basis.”

Cool!  This’ll be the best walk yet.

Jim Morrison of the Doors liked to drink way too much at the The Palms, a low-rent lesbian bar across the street from the Tropicana.  Jim would then stumble back across Santa Monica Boulevard and pass out.

Tom Waits lived at the Tropicana for nine years with a Steinway upright piano jammed into his room’s kitchenette.

Van Morrison wrote “T.B. Sheets” and other songs while staying at the Tropicana.

Big Brother and the Holding Company, Bob Marley and the Wailers, and Alice Cooper all worked out of, and lived in, the Tropicana.

As did Stevie Nicks, Joan Jett, Blondie, and Tom Petty.

And Janis Joplin, Bruce Springsteen, Frank Zappa, Alice Cooper, Led Zepplin, the Mamas and the Papas, the Beach Boys, Jim McGuinn of the Byrds, Martha and the Vandellas, and Sly and the Family Stone. 

Plus William S. Burroughs.

Oh, this would be a great walk!

I’d have to check out the lobby for sure (and the men’s room...sigh), taking in the vibes of all those who once did the same.

I was especially excited because The Ramones often stayed there.

Johnny and Joey Ramone outside the Tropicana Motel circa 1978. (Photo by Brad Elterman)

I know a guy (actually, two guys) in the Pittsburgh-based band, “Eddie and the Otters,” which opened for the Ramones at The Decade years ago. 

The Decade was “the” nightclub in Pittsburgh in my day (and the decade after).  They all played at The Decade:

Bruce Springsteen, Arrowsmith

The Police (with lead singer, Sting), U2

Cyndi Lauper, Stevie Ray Vaughn

Bon Jovi, Red Hot Chili Peppers

Now here’s the thing.  As of 1996, the Ramones were gone.  Over, done.

But Eddie and the Otters performed its farewell concert only a month ago (May, 2022).  The great ones last!

Back in the day when Eddie and the Otters were opening at The Decade and could stand

Just last month, when they sat.

Anyway, when I arrived to the Tropicana at 8585 Santa Monica Boulevard, it wasn’t there! Damn it!

It seems that in 1988 somebody had the idea to tear it down and replace it with the Ramada Plaza West Hollywood Hotel and Suites. 

As I’ve said before:  and some people think my ideas are stupid!?

I took a photo, found elsewhere to pee, limped back home, and sat the rest of the day like an aging member of Eddie and the Otters.

Oh, and those of you looking for a Sally photo, here you go.

Father’s Day

Out on an innocent walk on Father’s Day, I bumped into The Viper Room, the nightclub that is best known, sadly, for hosting River Phoenix’s death. Sigh.

Phoenix’s career was brief, but remarkable. His breakthrough film was “Stand by Me” (1986). 

And oh boy, he had a knack for being paired with great talent: with Ethan Hawke in “Explorers” (1985), with Keanu Reeves in “My Own Private Idaho” (1991), with Harrison Ford in both “The Mosquito Coast” (1986) and “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” (1989), with Sidney Poitier in “Little Nikita” (1988), and with Robert Redford in “Sneakers” (1992).

But it was the pairing of cocaine and heroin (a speedball) that killed him here on Sunset Boulevard at age 23.

A bouncer escorted Phoenix outside the club, he instantly dropped to the ground, started going into convulsions, and died.

Heartbreaking.

Standing at that very place was unsettling. Yet the moment felt familiar.  What was it?

63 Bank Street

Then I remembered – my walk, two years ago, during the pandemic, to 63 Bank Street in New York City.

63 Bank Street is where Sid Vicious was found dead of a heroin overdose on February 1, 1979. 21 years after being born John Simon Ritchie in London.

Things had not been going well for Sid. 

To say the least.

The Sex Pistols had broken up, in great part because of Sid’s and his girlfriend’s (Nancy Spungen) volatile and drug-driven relationship.

And the band’s supposed drummer was off reading E.B. White essays (recall this post).

Then Spungen was found dead—in her and Sid’s room at the Chelsea Hotel, killed by a stab inflicted by a knife bought by Sid. 

Did he stab her?

Did she fall on the knife?  Did a robber grab the knife in the spur of the moment? 

(The killing was never solved because of, well, what happened at 63 Bank Street.)

Anyway, Sid was charged with his girlfriend’s murder and sent to prison.

There he slit his wrists, but lived.

Nancy and Sid

He soon got out on bail.   But then he attacked Patti Smith’s brother with a broken bottle, and two months later Sid was back in jail.

After completing a rehab program, Sid was again released on bail, and went directly to a “welcome back” party at 63 Bank Street. 

Sid was now clean.  At last!

But then his loving mother sent a gift over to the party—a large pack of 80% pure heroin. 

And Sid was found dead of an overdose the next morning. Heartbreaking.

Sid’s mum, and Sid.

I continued walking along Sunset Boulevard. 

Today is Father’s Day, my first ever in Los Angeles, and I’m thinking about my wonderful dad, my terrific kids (recall this post), and the challenges of parenting. 

OK, I’m far from a perfect father, and my mother once gave me one slice too many of her homemade apple pie, but Sid’s mother!

Enough….

PS: I know a guy (did it!), who once took a photo of Sally.

So for those of you who only read this far hoping to see a photo of Sally, here you go.

The Steep Price of Stardom

Holy smokes!  This could be a problem!

With us moving to Los Angeles, our new home might show up on one of these maps. 

How easy is that going to make it for Detective Rocco to nail me?  (see this post).

Especially with her international cadre of killer Roccos (see this post).

Damn it!

It just makes sense that our address will be added to these maps. 

After all, my screen celebrity is enduring. 

Paul Newman and I first worked together  in “Slap Shot,” when I was featured in a crowd scene filmed in my hometown of Ligonier, PA.

Then Rolling Stones drummer Charlie Watts joined me on “Regis and Kathie Lee Live! “where I made Hot Dog Puree and pissed off Regis when I told him my name was Jess, not Charlie.  See this post.

I was hot that year!  And was next scheduled to appear with Donna Hanover (aka Mrs. Rudy Giuliani) until some chef named Charlie screwed that up.  (But I brought along my basket with the Crown Roast of Dogs to the Food Network just in case.)

All that said about my extensive screen history, I may have a solution.

I know a guy (did it!) who works with the California Department of Motor Vehicles to sneak in celebrities at, like, 5:05 p.m., to get their driver’s license. 

Seriously, you can’t have Brad Pitt sitting there for three hours with a #243 stub waiting for a window to open.

So maybe there’s a guy who also provides fake addresses for celebrity stars.

On it!

The Garden of Allah Hotel

The Garden of Allah Hotel (cool name, right?) was located on Sunset Boulevard right next to the triangle of dirt where the Pandora’s Box nightclub once was and where Peter Fonda got handcuffed, probably by a cop named Rocco.  (This post.)

The hotel looked like this:

Then a banker had an idea.  He bought the hotel, tore it down, and made it look like this:

And people think my ideas are stupid?!

Last year, the wrecking ball showed up again and now it’s an empty lot surrounded by a green fence with an apartment building in the distance.  I walked over today to check things out.

It all started when Russian-American actress Alla Nazimova (1879-1945) bought a private home on the property, added 25 villas, and in 1927 opened the "Garden of Allah Hotel."

Alla Nazimova

Film producer Adolph Zukor called Nazimova “the quintessential Queen of the Movie Whores,” as her exoticism equally provoked adoration and horror.

She was rather open with her bisexuality, enjoying a run of well-known relationships with actresses, wives of actors, and mistresses of actors. She’s credited for originating the phrase "sewing circle" as a discreet code for lesbian or bisexual actresses.

Nazimova was a close friend of future U.S. First Lady Nancy Reagan’s mother and ended up being Nancy’s godmother.

Nazimova’s Garden of Allah Hotel quickly became “the” place to stay in LA. 

Greta Garbo

Actors who lived here included Buster Keaton, the Gish sisters, Gloria Swanson, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford, W.C. Fields, Edward G. Robinson, Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, Orson Welles, Grace Kelly, Frank Sinatra, Greta Garbo, Marlene Dietrich, Errol Flynn, Charlie Chaplin, and Valentino.

Nazimova’s lovers included Chaplin’s and Valentino’s ex-wives.

And both Garbo and Dietrich enjoyed skinny-dipping in the hotel’s pool (at that time, the largest pool in Los Angeles). 

Dietrich once complained, “Sex in America is an obsession. In other parts of the world it’s a fact.”

Joining the cast of actors at the hotel were writers like P. G. Wodehouse, Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and Lillian Hellman, William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald (see this post), Ernest Hemingway, Dorothy Parker (see this post), and Robert Benchley.

Benchley once had a friend steer him around in a wheelbarrow, from room to room throughout the hotel. 

His mission?  “More gin!”

“It took me fifteen years to discover that I had no talent for writing, but I couldn’t give it up because by that time I was too famous.” - Robert Benchley

Robert Benchley

Oh, and get a load of this, Albert Einstein also stayed here.

Einstein had a roving eye for women and he soon had his on Nazimova.

(Einstein was a bright guy, but sometimes couldn’t “read the room.”)

When I add The Garden of Allah Hotel hanky-panky stuff as a new chapter, the sales are going to go through the roof!

Smokin’ Sally

Meanwhile, Nazimova lived here at her hotel with actor Charles Bryant, who was paid 10 percent of her salary for pretending to be her husband.

Although the two flirted in public they did not share a bed.

Man, talk about a great job!  10% for doing nothing! 

Only if I hadn’t fallen in love with Sally….

I walked over to some dirt and then—holy crap!

There’s a triangle of dirt at the intersection of Sunset Boulevard and North Crescent Heights.

Today I stood in the middle of that dirt triangle. 

It was just me, two palm trees, a bus stop, dirt, and cars whizzing by on three sides.

But had a stood there in the early 1960s, I would have been standing in the nightclub, Pandora’s Box, along with lots of drunk hippies.  Cool! 

Pandora’s Box featured the likes of the Beach Boys, the Byrds, and Caesar and Cleo (who soon, thankfully, renamed themselves Sonny & Cher).

You see the problem, right?  Too many people, drugs, booze, and rock ‘n’ roll in the middle of one of LA’s busiest intersections.

So in 1966, a strict 10:00 p.m. curfew was established along Sunset Strip (Boulevard). And oh boy, that really pissed-off the club’s patrons.

On Saturday, November 12, 1966, fliers were distributed along the Strip inviting people to demonstrate that night; and one of L.A.'s rock 'n' roll radio stations announced a rally at Pandora's Box.

1,000 demonstrators showed up, including Jack Nicholson and Peter Fonda (who was handcuffed by the police).  The police and media called the demonstration a “riot.”

But alas, despite best efforts, Pandora’s Box was soon closed, torn down and leveled, and then I showed up 56 years later.

Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth (Stop, Hey, What’s That Sound) was written by the band’s Stephen Stills in response to the Pandora’s Box riots.  To quote Stills, "Riot is a ridiculous name, it was a funeral for Pandora's Box.”

The place was mistakenly featured in the film, Once Upon a Time in Hollywood, which was set in 1969, long after the nightclub was gone, and nothing was there but weird people taking photos of satellites.

Plastic People, a song recorded by Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention, includes the lyrics, "I hear the sound of marching feet...down Sunset Boulevard to Crescent Heights and there at Pandora's box we are confronted with a vast quantity of plastic people.”

Cooler yet, the 1967 film, “Riot on Sunset Strip” is a fictionalized depiction of the events around the Pandora's Box riots.

Anyway, I took one of my lousy photos across the street from the triangle…

…then continued down Sunset Boulevard, went left on Sweetzer, took a right on Santa Monica and headed west.  When, suddenly—holy crap!—some joint named “Rocco’s!”

Remember?  Detective Rocco?!  New York City’s finest who gunned down Aaron Green in Randy’s old loft?  (This post.)

Yep, the very same Detective Rocco who threatened me if I wrote of what really happened. 

And then like an idiot, I did.  Days later I grabbed Sally and we fled to LA to hide out.

And now, Rocco’s! 

Right in front of me!

What if this is her brother or cousin’s place?  What if the Roccos are all networked.  And the Roccos here also shoot annoying people like me? I bet it was a Rocco who handcuffed Peter Fonda up at Pandora’s Box.  Damn it!

I quickly took a photo and headed back up Santa Monica, with my baseball cap pulled down low.  What if I had bumped into this Rocco’s joint in the dark of the night?  Phew!  That was close.

I got home, bolted the door, and checked out Rocco’s website.   At night the place has drag queen shows.  I’ll be skipping those....

I went for a walk, then stopped and smelled the roses

I WALKED over to Hayworth Avenue in West Hollywood to where F. Scott Fitzgerald lived. 

I took a photo, then looked around.  Things seemed safe enough.  Unlike in New York City, where murderers ran amok through my life and this blog.

Fitzgerald in 1929

Well, except that Fitzgerald died here in 1940 at age 44.  I suspect it was the prices charged by Sunset Boulevard restaurants (a half block north of here) that killed him.

Fitzgerald was one of his generation’s many renowned writers of short stories and novels who headed for Los Angeles to cash in on writing film scripts.  Think of William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway, Aldous Huxley, Theodore Dreiser, Raymond Chandler, Christopher Isherwood, and, of course, Dorothy Parker.

The hopeful notion of “I’ll get paid a lot to write good stuff for the big screen” rarely worked.  The film studios insisted on watering-down scripts to appeal to the largest possible audience. The authors hated that, and their frustrations most often ended the once hopeful notion.  The book publishing industry and the film industry were as different as night and day, as different as Manhattan and Hollywood.

For Fitzgerald it was at a time when the glow of The Great Gatsby had dimmed.

He was punching-up scripts (most were never produced) with a few lines of dialog for $200 a day.

He holed up in West Hollywood trying to support his daughter and the lost love of his life, Zelda, who was in a North Carolina sanitarium. 

And of course, he was drinking like crazy. Yet I do love the beauty with which he put together these 14 words:

First edition

Zelda

“I want to know you moved and breathed in the same world with me.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald

BUT REALLY, IT WAS THE FLOWERS TODAY!  The sidewalks here are lined with them.  They’re varied, colorful, calming, just a delight in most everyway.  This is not at all like walking in Manhattan. 

I sometimes walk around here with my five-year-old granddaughter who calls me “Dadu,” a delightful corruption of “Dad’s Dad.” 

She’s always saying, “Dadu!  Let’s stop and smell the roses.”

And she does.

I have so much to learn from her, right?  I’m always rushing to catch the crosswalk light or find a public toilet.  But she actually stops, pauses, in no rush at all, and with great delight and satisfaction, smells the flowers. 

I got so far off-track through the years, worrying about money, working my ass off.  And it saddens me to think the same will happen to her.  Soon enough she’ll be rushing past these flowers to the office, busy on her mobile doing whatever, not stopping to smell the roses.  Damn it!  For now, for as long as possible, I’m trying like crazy to allow her to set the pace. 

So she and I walk, we pause, we smell the roses.  Life with her is so joyful.

Mr. Lincoln rose

Today, on the way back from the late great Fitzgerald’s, I stopped to smell a large, red rose (see the tenth photo).  The owner came off his porch and proudly told me that it was a “Mr. Lincoln” rose.  He went on, “Mr., Lincoln has outstandingly strong damask fragrance that seduces the senses.”  Whoa!  And now I know a guy (there, did it!) who knows his roses.

Here in LA, will these sidewalks be lined with flowers all year around?  That would be cool. 

I look forward to finding out.

Sincerely,

Dadu

Los Angeles and Dorothy Parker

As you know, I now live in Los Angeles for good reason.

So being the idiot I am, I tempted fate and walked to where Dorothy Parker once lived. 

Just as I once innocently walked to her grave (and oh boy, what I mess that caused).

Parker lived at 8983 Norma Place with her husband—writer, stage actor, and screenwriter—Alan Campbell, from 1957 to 1963.  

8983 Norma Place, West Hollywood, CA

Norma Place is in the West Hollywood neighborhood of Norma Triangle, named after silent film star, Norma Talmadge.  (For the first time ever!  A sentence with three Norma’s in it!)

Parker and Campbell, who divorced in 1947 then remarried in 1950, were not a happy couple while living here.

Parker barely made a living writing book reviews for Esquire magazine.  Although she did try teaching for a year at California State College, she didn’t like anything about it, especially the students.

(I get that.  I was the worst professor ever for one semester at Emerson College in Boston.)

Norma Talmadge

I took a photo. Then being curious, I walked along Norma Place, looking at mailboxes and door buzzers to see if a Lajos Antal or Allan Jatos might live nearby. 

Me hanging out at Parker’s. Just missed her by 59 years.

Nope, nothing.  No deaths afoot this time. Well, except that Alan Campbell killed himself here

59-year-old Campbell spent the day of June 14, 1963, drinking Bloody Mary’s.  (I sorta get that too.) When Parker came home, Campbell was in bed along with capsules of Seconal and a plastic bag over his neck and shoulders.  The coroner went with “suicide due to acute barbiturate poisoning.”  Parker insisted it was an accident.  (Hey, she wrote both fiction and nonfiction. She should have had a blog.)

According to Lillian Hellman, when a neighbor came over to ask the grieving widow if she needed anything, Parker said, “A new husband.”

The neighbor was shocked and angry and said so to Parker.

“Okay,” Parker said, “Then run down to the corner and get me a ham and cheese on rye. And tell them to hold the mayo.”

By the way, I know a guy.  (I love that phrase.  Perfect for my next stupid blog concept.  Every posting will include the phrase, “I know a guy.”)

Anyway, I know a guy.  His daughter now lives at this house.  She moved in, having no idea that it was once Parker’s home and that her husband killed himself there.  Her father soon figured out the house’s history.

On every gift-giving occasion, the guy gives his daughter a Parker book, some first editions, some autographed.  The house now has quite the Parker library. Very cool.

So the next home Sally and I have, I’m going to make something up about the place.  Like Lajos Antal lived there when he decided to change his name to Allan Jatos.  And people will load me up with special editions of his work.  Cool!

I gotta end this with Parker quips.  Some oldies, and at the end, a new favorite.

“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.” 

“You can lead a horticulture, but you can't make her think.” 

“Tell him I was too fucking busy — or vice versa.” 

“Brevity is the soul of lingerie.” 

“I like to have a martini,
Two at the very most.
After three I'm under the table,
after four I'm under my host.” 

“Get me a new husband.”

Oh, and if you’ve made it this far, dear reader, so have Sally and I. Today is our 41st anniversary. xoxoxox

June 6, many years ago. Luckiest guy in the world standing there.

123. Goodbye and so much for this blog

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

_____________________________________________

So yesterday, I posted the truth of what happened to Aaron that night.

And soon after, a New York Times reporter called me (as I expected might happen).  We talked. 

So the shit’s about to hit the fan. Suddenly, this blog (or at least that one entry) is going to have more readers than I ever imagined.

I suspect the New York Times headline will be something like, “NYC Police Execute Suspect.” 

I do understand whatever feelings anybody might have about Rocco’s decision.  Its righteousness, or its evil. I’m still uncertain of my own feelings. After all, Aaron was about to kill me.

Whatever, it’s now impossible for me to safely live in New York City.  I will “get mine” as Rocco threatened.  Every time a cop gets near me, I’ll think, “this is it.” 

And I don’t want to live like that.

So we’re moving to Los Angeles.  As soon as possible. 

Our children live there.  And it should be safer there for the “blabbing blogger,” as one cop called me.

Meanwhile, The Drunken Horse (Blog 65) is now closed (big rent hike). So the gods could not be clearer about it being time for us to move on.

Our New York co-op is on the market. 

And likewise, sigh, it’s time to bring this blog to an end.  It’s been nothing but trouble. Too many dead people. That certainly was not its intent.

Any of you out there still reading this at this point, thanks a million.  Really.  God bless ya.

But it’s time.  It’s over.  Enough.

I’m off to hide. And find a new bartender.

Vége.

“All I mean is that I was very young in New York,

and that at some point the golden rhythm was broken,

and I am not that young anymore.”

— Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That

122. My bartender and my decision

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

_________________________________________________

As you know, I called, then went to see, Detective Rocco.  I had my suspicions about Aaron. 

She thought those suspicions were legit.

So that night at Randy’s old loft with Aaron, was my idea.  I’d get him there, I’d get him to talk, and then the police would jump out and arrest him.

Seemed like a good plan. See this blog post from a couple of days ago. Rocco agreed. 

That afternoon we ran a few tests to determine that she could, indeed, hear and record from the secret room. 

She also placed another officer in the bedroom, and another down the hall pass the elevator.

I assumed Aaron and I would just talk, and Rocco would listen. I did NOT expect he’d pull a gun on me, shoot the aquarium, and come up with a fake Brallier-jumps-out-of-a-window scenario.  That one threw me.

But as you know, when I entered the secret room, I suddenly, and purposely, fell to the floor and Aaron was shot and killed by Rocco.  What you don’t know, and what has been bugging the fuck out of me since, is that Rocco never gave Aaron any sort of warning.  She didn’t yell “Police!” Or “Hands up!” or “Drop it!”  She just immediately shot him.  It felt like an execution.

I confronted her minutes later, “What the fuck? You never warned him.  You just shot him.”

“Yes I did warn him.  You just don’t remember.”

“No, no,” I said, “Check the recording and—”

“That won’t happen,” she interrupted. “At the moment of the warning and shooting the recording shut down due to technological problems.”

The two other cops looked at me and nodded, in both agreement and warning.

“Listen, Jess,” Rocco said, “It’s simpler this way.  Saves us time, saves you time in court.  The guy was guilty as hell.  He admitted to murder.”

I didn’t say a thing. 

“And come on!  He was seconds from killing you!” The steady and deliberate Rocco yelled for a first time, “ Jesus!  What’s wrong with you!”

“Fuckin’ asshole,” muttered one of the other cops.

I still said nothing.

“Listen and listen carefully,” she got into my face, “You write this on your blog in any other way than how we said it went down, your life will be hell.  We’ll get you.  Jaywalking, pot, whatever it takes.  Your life will be hell.  Then we’ll get you to Rikers.  You won’t last 30 minutes there.”

New York City's Rikers Correctional Center

I nodded to the cops, turned, and walked out of that loft for a last time.

I talked it through with Sally, and David and Bill, and with Moon.  And, as you’ve just read, I made a decision. 

Now, god willing, I have to live with that decision. If New York’s finest allow me.

Tomorrow:  One last update

121: Maybe and maybe not

BESTSELLERS & BEST FRIENDS

My book publishing blog, with murder mysteries woven through it.

If this is your first visit, be sure to start with “1. Let’s do it!”

_____________________________________________________

I need another day before I can dive back into the whole Allan-Katie-Larry-Aaron mess.  I’m so struggling with the shooting of Aaron.

I talked about it with Sally, and with long-trusted friends and colleagues, David Goehring and Bill Hammond.  Now, it’s time to talk with Moon, my Pakistan, Muslim, non-drinking (seriously) bartender.

Meanwhile, allow me to talk of Bill Hammond, who I just mentioned.

Bill was sales director at Little Brown through part of my tenure there as marketing director. 

In recent years he’s been writing his book series, The Cutler Family Chronicles.  I’m lucky enough to be one of his manuscript readers, chapter by chapter, as he writes each entry in the series.  His most recently published entry is No Sacrifice Too Great. 

A few years ago, Bill lost his wife, the mother of their three boys, after a short illness.  It’s tough to imagine a wife who was more loved. 

Bill’s grief was deep and consuming.  He started to write of it.  And the writing became a book, The Ultimate Gift: Embracing the Joy of Eternal Love.

The book’s many readers included Sheree, a woman in New Zealand who had lost her much loved husband.

Sheree sent Bill an email.  He responded.  More emails were sent.  Then daily phone calls began. Sheree visited the United States, and Bill.  Bill visited New Zealand, and Sheree.  Then he visited New Zealand again, and didn’t come home this time.

Bill and Sheree are now married. Their children and her grandchildren are delighted.  Bill and Sheree each speak lovingly and eloquently of their late spouses; and on social media they often join to celebrate the other’s love for their departed wife and husband. 

Meanwhile, they joyfully and lovingly tell me about how each is simply, “walking the other home.” At my age, that gets to me every time.

And there you go, reason enough to be right back at loving the business of book publishing... despite the jerks, even the killers, who somehow show up. 

Really, I hate to think of the less-than-could-be lives Sheree and Bill would be living had Bill’s book not been published. 

So seriously, if you think you’ve got something to write, just do it!

Tomorrow: My bartender, my decision