Thursday, November 18, 2010

The Only Tree In The Forest

My editor, King Seneca, suggests that I consider expanding my column as well as this blog into some form of cottage industry.

That concept amuses me.

Battalions of ideas march through my head, many of which aren't in the usual Facebook/Twitter categories. I could swing this.

I'm sure other coquettish maidens would enjoy the possibilities in a heart-shaped pillow like the one I mentioned Dix found charming, with the possibilities therein equally satisfying in real-life or imagination.

I had to have the ignition switch changed in the Tiger, and I kept the original. Maybe some fan would like to bid on the original keys on eBay?

He's suggested conferences, or seminars, or writer appearances, and perhaps discussing a page of my handwritten notes, then an auction of same for charity. A few with no direct profit could enhance it elsewhere, according to someone close to me who's bull-strong with Economics. Interesting idea, otherwise. Nobody knows what I look like, and this coming-out may prove productive.

There are so many more: My Cubs cap, my iRiver Clix music player (which I used to record many notes on-the-fly, over the years), and a Ky's Prize personally whipped up for an auction winner. Ky's Famous Decaf blend? A documentary on Istra Censi? (Why nobody's done that yet is beyond my comprehension.)

No, I didn't wander away from the topic.

J.D. Salinger was the lone tree in the forest. At once torn to shreds and applauded as a genius, he enhanced the buzz for his books by living out life in a small New Hampshire town, and living in... seclusion? No, in plain sight.

For all the secrecy and mystical ghost-like presence he had--sans telephoto images shot from the bushes--he spent far more than a few evenings openly enjoying local church suppers and other functions, known as Jerry.

Aren't there any real detectives left in this world? Oops, sorry, I guess it's just that those characters aren't graduating from j-school.

Without setting up a website and selling gew-gaws, pitching convertibles on TV, or opening his coat and whispering, "psst...buddy", he just went home and chilled with his homeys, and that was the exact right thing to sell a quarter-million copies of Catcher In The Rye annually, never mind his other books. And he was an author--of all critters--famous for writing a book, which is an oddball combination if one has celebrity painted upon them.

This was marketing genius, long before anything AS SEEN ON TV.

Billy Mays should have bowed down to him. As we do now.