Long ago, far away, I bought a typesetting company in Iowa with my mentor and business partner. Yes, yes, yes, I know I'm an idiot. I am reminded daily. The Wall Street Journal said I was a dope. Business Week decided I could have been more clued in. And a letter I got in the mail today told me that "If you'd talked to me, you'd never have bought that company and had to bear your guilty soul."

As the book the Secret says, if you want it bad enough, it will come to you. And if you don't, you'll deserve the crap you get.

It's nice to be smart in retrospect. It's comforting to know you'd never have pushed the launch button on the Challenger or invested with the Hunt Brothers or bought a Newton.

In the book the Black Swan, Nassim Taleb points out that, "Nobody would publish a book about business failure." Because the business press, and media in general, creates the myth of the formula for success. How do you find this equation? Just get a bunch of successful people in a room and try to find something they all share in common. Do they get up early to exercise? Did they have sloppy handwriting in grade school? Do they lace their shoes all on the left and then the right?

Nassim says it's all bunk. Success is what we all know already, a mix of skill, perseverance, and luck. And luck is a big big part of it. If Bill Gate's mother hadn't been on the board of United Way with the CEO of IBM, he likely wouldn't have gotten that meeting to sell them DOS. And how do you control who your mother knows? I guess you just have to wish hard enough.

 

 

Persia: Not Ahmadinejad's IranMy girlfriend is Persian, which is a nice way of saying "Iranian" if you live in America and want to draw a line between yourself and, say, ululating, consulate storming terrorists and elected Holocaust deniers. I'm serious. I believe it is this distinction that allows her brother, who is an actor, to get parts on Law and Order as an evil doctor or evil TV executive rather than being put in a long beard and told his character is planning to blow up mini-malls in Totowa.

Apparently, 6' 2" Persians are even harder to cast on TV than Mexicans. Or, as George Lopez, who's show was replaced by "Caveman," which is based on the Geico ad character, put it, "So a Chicano can't be on TV, but a caveman can?"

Of course, anyone who would confuse my girlfriend, a North Carolina born, Ivy-league educated lawyer who works for a bank with a terrorist would be the kind of person who doesn't doubt that Bin Laden has Totowa's famed Holiday Inn high on his list. ("They provided transportation to the mall.")

But growing up in the South in the '70s, she faced the pressure of being lumped in with the students holding Americans hostage--this despite her parents having moved to the US to avoid exactly the same extremist Islamic government.

Calling yourself "Persian" was the only recourse. Either people could understand the reason for distancing oneself from Iranian politics, or they simply had no idea where Persia was anymore than Paraguay. Either way, conflict avoided.

However the issue hasn't gone away and it's the same as it always has been: racism. It's what keeps Carlos Mencia on TV making the kind of fat, gay, black, Asian, Mexican, Jewish, jokes that frat boys, anonymous website commenters, and Beavis and Butthead enjoy. At least Beavis and Butthead was supposed to be ironic.

It's the same thing that Jewcy has been pointing out about the ADL selecting which kinds of genocides qualify as "mean spirited enough" to be real genocide.

There's no point trying to shut up the idiots, but at least we can call their bluff and remind them that they are what they are. On a trip to Australia an old man I'd met said to me, "New York City? You know there are 3 million Jews there?"

"No," I responded, "Actually, there's 2,999,999, because I'm here with you."

I've recently moved in with my girlfriend. She's Persian. I am not. She likes oriental carpets ("Do you know how much these carpets are worth?"). I do not. She likes French provincial furniture ("Do you have a version with more curlicues?"). I, well, you get the picture.

I grew up with Danish Modern furniture and my father's desire to paint walls white, if for no other reason than having fewer paint cans. Also, I once was nearly forced to rent an apartment in London that was owned by a Persian man with unrestrained decorating taste. There were mirrors on the ceiling, and the walls were covered with either deep blue or red velvet. ("I am sorry, I ran out of red velvet.")

Now we must attempt to find a way to match our styles. And I have made this suggestion. We get a mirrored panther. Possibly on a red velvet platform.

I think such an object would allow a concentration of all Persianess into a singularity of Orientalism. An entire opium den/Rubaiyat/Tehran airport in one fused mass. The challenge is, where to find a mirrored panther? The Internet will make this easy, no? No.

The first couple I find certainly have the potential to make me ill, but they are not three dimensional enough.

Mirrored Panther Take 1: (A little to Chinese?)

Mirrored Panther Take 2: (Cool Panther, Scary Lady)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alas! I could not find a mirrored, tiled, panther anywhere! That includes an entire site devoted to mosaic sculpture on one very very very long page. However, lest you think that I am an idiot Googler ("Did you try putting it in quotes?") or that the world is not full of mirrored, mosaic animal sculptures, I present:

A mirrored horse: A little large for our apartment, but maybe for you?

A mirrored dolphin: What does a mirrored dolphin have to do with cancer research? Also, definitely too big for the apartment.

A mirrored catfish: Now we are talking.

So, what to do? Nu? After much Internet searching, I have found the answer. Something that satisfies the Persian in her and the Jew in me: A mosaic (although sadly not mirrored) Hamen. (As in hamentaschen!)

A mosaic Hamen: (But what about a hamen Moses?)

 

Actual bag of bolts from fan kit: I kept everything as required for "preparedness." So you watch out, I'm ready.Me: I've got a drill.

Friend on the other end of the phone: Try not to die.

It's true, I don't have a good record with D.I.Y. (For instance, for a long time I thought D.I.Y was a brand name.) And while it is true that knowledge is gained at the expense of practice, my current bank account includes bicycles falling on my head, lamps exploding, and a variety of deep hand wounds. I've also spent a lot of actual money. And, unlike my cooking projects, so far I've not always been able to get the burn marks cleaned off the ceiling.

For example, the ceiling fan that I actually took a stab at (it only hit me on the head so far, not yet in the eye) has cost me: a bunch of screws of various lengths, $5; a fancy wrench, $29; and a ladder, $180; an electrical tester I know realize I need, $30. Total, some number over $200. What am I a handyman and an accountant?

Estimate provided by an actual handyman: $75.

But where would the fun be in that? Where would be the surprise in not electrocuting myself? The thrill of realizing that "Oh! It goes in that way! I have to take it all apart again." The pathos of the part that seems to be left over. And the ultimate joy of, at last, calling the actual handyman.

No, not like some stupid '50s sitcom where everyone laughs at me. I mean the thrill of calling the handyman and having this conversation.

Handyman: Very impressive work. (shaking his head)

Me: I know! Did you see how I managed to get the wires through that tiny hole.

Handyman: Yeah, how'd you do that?

Me: (very very proud at thoroughly confounding another handyman)

Me "Working": My cat: Surveys my activity from a safe, out of range, out of focus, distance.From this persepective I seem even less sure of what's going on.

 

 

 

An Allergy Free Cat: Is a Happy Cat Here's some of the things I have to do today:

• Return the electrical breaker I bought that was wrong.
• Find something of equal or lesser value that I can now consider "free," like box of tiny screwdrivers.
• Return the shower head I'm not ever going to install and get a toaster oven in exchange. Alton Brown said toaster ovens are cool.
  
• Determine plan for convincing clerk that I do have the receipt for the shower head, it's just invisible.
• Rub down cat with anti-allergy shampoo.
• Rub down other cat with anti-allergy shampoo after moving all the furniture it has scooted under; includes bed, sofa, kitchen cabinet, front closet, my closet, my underwear.
• Disinfect and bandage allergy-free-cat inflicted wounds.
• Come to some kind of resolution on the 3 month old email about my expiring US airways miles. Hope that all deadlines have finally passed and it is now a moot point that I don't have to do anything about except gripe. ("Bastards just took away my miles! Just like that!")
• Reopen article about outsourcing that my publisher and PR team thought was, "Not up to your usual standard."
  
• Close article about outsourcing so as to reboot computer to install "Critical iTunes Update."
• Make plans to visit my girlfriends parents in North Carolina by checking prices on Expedia.
• Curse airline industry.
• Fight with girlfriend over travel plans.
  
• Fight with girlfriend over the way my job lets me "work at home."
  
• Attempt to define drooling on keyboard as real work, just like her job.
• Call girlfriend back to apologize after realizing I am hard to live with, again.
• Think really seriously about installing that ceiling fan that's on the floor. Maybe shift ladder again to determine best position for thinking seriously about it.
• Google myself.
• E-mail anyone who has even kind of mentioned my book.
• Mop excess moisture off of coffee maker.
  
• Revel in glow of dry coffee maker, and at least one task accomplished.

 

Johnny Carson: As if you didn't know.I remember as a child watching Carson propping up his guests' latest book on his prop desk (why's he need a desk? he got a stapler in there?) and the camera cuts to a close shot of the title. I thought nothing of it.

Now I'm an author and, while Johnny is gone, the thought of my book being pimped on TV is nothing short of pornographic. I turn on my Tivo'd Daily Show and wait for John Stewart to say, "And tonight, author of the engaging memoir about stupid business decisions, David Silverman."

Of course, that's not going to happen. Mostly because the show I'm watching is taped. And also, I already sent them a nice email and they said no.

I can't speak for all authors, but I can for myself and several friends. We are schizophrenics, all of us. We want nothing more than for you to buy our book and love it, and yet, when the chance comes to sell it to you, we kind of shrug our shoulders and say, "Yeah, um, it's about losing $4 million and ruining this business in Iowa and putting 200 people out of work. So, OK, I think it's maybe interesting to some people. I mean it's no Salman Rushdie, but it's a nice book."

The fact is, we feel guilty for trying to sell ourselves, and yet we secretly check our Amazon ranking every night at 2 am. (I just did, and I don't want to talk about it.)

Well, earlier this week I went to my cousin's funeral where two things were hammered in my head by all my relatives:

1. "The gravestone has two dates and a dash. What really matters is the dash and what you do with it."

2. "Hey David, how are the book sales going?"

So, without further ado, I give you an excerpt of Typo: The Last American Typesetter or How I Made and Lost $4 Million, as animated by the amazing Scott Bateman. And then I shrug my shoulders and smile hopefully.

My Mother's Art: My mother was an artitst. Johanna Liebman remarked that it showed none of the horror of most survivor art.In my search for my mother, I have both sought knowledge and intentionally avoided it. For example, the Leo Baeck Institute is one of the leading German Jew research centers in the world, and it's only 50 blocks from my home, but I've not been able to bring myself to go there.

Honestly, I'm afraid. I know how difficult I became to deal with while writing, and therefore reliving my failure in business memoir. And that was just about losing $4 million and people being put out of work. How will I face the world trying to put myself in a time of millions killed?

That said, one night I Googled relentlessly on a town my mother may have lived in, Karlsruhe. This is how I found Johanna Liebman at the Queens College Holocaust Center.

And so, I share some of her story, which is likely very similar to my mother's. (The very formal style of the interview is because my girlfriend is both a wonderful person to document it and a lawyer. So it does read a bit like a very very scary Law and Order.)

On Saturday, July 9, 2005, David Silverman (“DS”), Carol Silverman (“CS”) met with Johanna Liebman (“JL”) at 10:30 a.m. at the Holocaust Resource Center (“HRC”) at Queensborough Colllege in Bayside, New York. JL recounted her experience at Le Camp de Gurs (“Gurs”) in 1940.

Life In Germany Before the Deportation

JL said that life in Germany for the Jewish population started going “down the hill in every way” in 1933 when the Nazis came to power. First, the Jewish population began to lose its privileges as citizens. For example, the cities took away Jewish citizens ability to have phones in their houses and to have radios.
Additionally, JL said that the Germans were using propaganda to teach the children to be prejudiced against the Jews. JL showed us a book called “Do No Trust The Fox In The Meadow And The Oath Of A Jew,” published in 1936. This book was a picture book depicting horrific caricatures of Jewish men as compared to the angelic blonde Germans.
CS asked JL why she thought that the Germans blamed the Jews. JL said that “Jews are used to that because we are always the scapegoats. We are thought of as poison that should be destroyed.” Then CS asked what the Jewish people thought about how far the treatment of Jews would go. JL said “I don’t think anyone had enough imagination to see how far things would go.” In fact, JL said that Jewish people were deported in Steltin (now part of Poland) outside of Berlin in February of 1939, but the Jewish population in Karlsruhe did not think it would happen to them. Still, JL recalled that she was horrified when she saw synagogues being destroyed every day.

It's a long story, but I felt it was worth being posted in its entirety, so more below.

Continue reading...

Watching Ken Burns' documentary on the War, I note that it's been ten years since my mother died.

When she was alive, her defining features were her inability to locate her reading glasses (which were usually on top of her head), her strong desire that I eat healthy (including "hiding" wheat toast on the bottom of a tuna sandwich topped with a disguise of white toast), and her inability to throw anything out (her modus operandi was to rifle through the refrigerator and pull out items with the plea, "Quick somebody eat this before it goes bad!").

After she died in 1997, I found her secret cache of documents in the basement. Among them were 4 postcards from France. (Apparently mail from the camps continued throughout the war.)

Postcard From Camp De Gurs These postcards were from the Nazi concentration camp called Gurs in the Pyrenees mountains. She had never told me she had been in a camp. She'd never even told me she wasn't born in Queens until I was in high school.

When I had come home from 7th grade history class asking if she knew what had happened in Germany, she peered at me through those big glasses and "I remember a fence we had run under and some men got made at us." And then she had returned to folding the laundry and I knew not to ask more, but not why.

Before the postcards, my mother was amusing, annoying, and doddering. Afterwards, she was what now? A holocaust survivor? But she didn't have a tattooed number. She hadn't been to Auschwitz. And what about me? Was I the son of a survivor? How could my mother, who made banana Jello and packed me and my father lunch everyday be a survivor?

I didn't understand, and I still don't, and a blog entry is too short to figure it out. But what I do know is that what my mother tried to protect me from still shaped my life, if just through that act of protection. And that I must, in the end, make sense first of her love.

Pom Pom Hat: That's one happy hat.Me: Ich schaufensterbummelmache.

German person: Collapses on floor in paroxysms of laughter.

Allow me to deconstruct. "Ich," means me. "Shau" is store. "Fenster" is a window. "Bummel" a walk or stroll, if you will. "Machen" to do or make.

The twitching German on the carpet explains that had I stuck only three words together said, "Ich mache einen Schaufensterbummel." I would have been happily going store window shopping.

After all, German is an agglutinative language. You can stick words together all day long, making sentences the size of football fields. For example, Donaudampfschiffahrtsgesellschaftskapitän, "Danube steamship company captain." Or, Betäubungsmittelverschreibungsverordnung, "regulation requiring a prescription for an anesthetic".

But I got ahead of myself. And I thought I would be cool and stick together four words that resulted in: "Ich," still means me. "Schaufenstebummelmache." In this context, the "bumel" becomes the Bavarian slang for a hat with a pom-pom. The "Schaufenster" is still the store window. But the "mache" means that my "doing" is standing in front of the store window with a hat with a pom-pom over my genitalia. Where did the genitalia come from? The German couldn't explain.

But when I said my sentence, he instantly imagined me in front of Macy's on a cold winter's day with a hat with a pom-pom on my Johnston and nothing else. And, his first reaction to that was gut wrenching laughter.

Note: This only works on Bavarians. Don't try it on your friends from Hamburg. They won't get it.

And in reference to my previous post about the Franklin BDS-1860 German/English translator planning to take over the world, I got a lot emails saying "You are full of it, and your hat with a pom-pom is very small." To that, I counter that I do not lie, and my mother made that hat you're making fun of. Here is YouTube proof.

The Franklin BDS-1860: The Dictionary of the Beast I am not making this up.

For my German language courses I purchased a Franklin Deutsch/English Professor PRO BDS-1860. As one of its many functions that include Tic Tac Toe, the game Conjumania (possibly a cross between naked Twister and Jumangi), and cultural notes on items such as Britpop ("Oasis, Travis und Blur"), my electronic dictionary offers up handy words to know when you turn it on.

Now remember that this is the German version of the dictionary. It's not meant to be purchased by English speakers, and they do their best to dissuade us using it by putting the Z key wackily in the middle of the keyboard. I spent hours trying to find the Y so I could translate "I have been sitting here looking at your stupid keyboard all day looking for the 'y'." So when it gives me words to learn, I can only assume it doesn't know my President is George W. Bush.

Here then are a sampling of what my dictionary wants me to know. And again, I am not making this up. If you want, get your own BDS-1860 or just come by and borrow mine. Just be aware that they know I have it now and may be watching.

Again, I am really not making this up.

BDS-1860	Me
Unbroken. "To date the peace treaty remains unbroken."	Clearly, not a good start.
My name is Dieter, excuse me?	Whoa! Are you listening to me?
Special. "Linda is my special friend."	This is just getting weird now.
Hurt. "One more drink won't hurt."	For who? Me or you Mata Hari? I won't tell you anything more than my name, rank, and Halo 3 save code.
Regierung	Oh, a German word. What's it mean? "To take power," that's what.
Transmit. "to transmit cholera"	And how often does this come up in conversation?
Schutz. "Protection from infection. To protect the eyes."	Have they been watching Bones? I swear I saw this last season.
Raid. "A raid on Belgrade/London"	At least where know where to schutz our eyes.
Scheffen. "We've got to get to the border."	No surprisingly, even in their dictionary, they are not expecting to beat U.S.A.
Excused. "Many of the war criminals were excused of their crimes."	Nice hoping there Dieter. But don't bet on it. U.s.A. U.S.A. U.S.A. Ah, who am I kidding. That's really really @#$% up.

Fruit: In German a little squeeze can turn Gretel into Hansel
As part of my trying to figure out where I come from and why my mother thought herring in tomato sauce was suitable for a 3rd grader's lunch box, I recently retried taking German lessons at NYU. I had failed miserably at it in high school ("You mean I have to memorize all this stuff?") and again in college ("You mean I have to memorize all this stuff?") and again when I went to Germany ("Ich weiss nicht was Sie sagen." I have not memorized any stuff.)

The first day of these things is always awkward as we go around the room explaining why we'd like to learn to recast the world into the stark light of male, female and neuter.

"My fiance is German."

"My fiance is German."

"You people tried to kill my family."

After that, well, the class actually wasn't too bad. With my 5 previous years of instruction I had tested easily into level 3 out of 10 available classes. ("You have a good sense of the nouns, but do not seem to have memorized any verbs.") Being the optimist I am, I chose level 2.

I was easily the best student, and could sit back and enjoy the struggles of the woman who spoke Korean, English, French, but stumbled over "Potzdamer Platz." Ha! I am so much way smarter, even if I can only speak English and kindergarten German. At least I can say "Kindergarten." (Which is masculine, of course, even though the children are, technically neuter, except for a group of boys, which is feminine, naturally, or girls, who are always neuter until they are ladies and been around the block a few times.)

Here are some useful hints for knowing what gender objects are in German.

• Fruit, such as oranges, grapes, cherries, and lemons are female, except for apples, which are male, because, apparently, they killed Snow White. However, when squeezed into juice, they all turn male. Apparently the German's believe a little pressure can go a long way.
• Your eyes, ears, hair and eyebrows are feminine, even your lips are ladies, but your mouth and throat are male. Think about that the next time you lick your lips, or anyone else's for that matter.

In my next post, I will show you how not to stick words together in German if you are trying to avoid explaining how you spent the day misusing Canadian hats.

German Cockroach: Mine didn't have the pin in it. Does that mean it was going to explode?

I don't know what's more disturbing, finding a German cockroach in my sink, or the fact that they're called "German." I mean, it's a little disconcerting right? The French have kissing, toast, doors and even a kind of broom. All of it either very pleasant or just extremely useful in tight spaces. (French doors, what were you thinking?)

But Germans, what do they have? World Wars, that's what. And cake. And cockroaches.

Now I say this as a German myself. I mean a real German because they gave me citizenship. Sure I had to go over to the consulate on 50th street and show them the papers that proved my mother and her mother had been born in Landau in Der Pfalz. And by show them, I mean go into an enclosed bullet proof glass cubicle with doors that locked on the outside and deposit my mother's papers into a bomb proof receptacle that was passed between myself and the German consular official, who then removed, with either dispassion or thinly disguised passion, all of the non-essential documents that showed how my mother had been rounded up with the other Jews of the Palatinate and taken to a concentration camp in France. (And this is not the good "kissing" and "broom" kind of France.)

So now I'm a German, and I note that my documents say that I will be until I die, but that my children, should I have any, will not be allowed to inherit this condition. On the other hand, my mother, who avoided telling me she was from Germany until I was in high school, and pretended not to have much knowledge of the years 1940 to1945, would have been unhappy to hear that her son had become one.

And maybe that's why I'm not so happy with the cockroach. Because I can go from an article I was going to write about German as an adjective and end up in the holocaust. And perhaps I should, as my girlfriend suggests, seek some therapy.

Xusa: The '80s. A more hopeful, pinker time.

Homer: Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute. Lisa, honey, are saying you're never going to eat any animal again? What about bacon?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Ham?
Lisa: No.
Homer: Pork chops?
Lisa: Dad! Those all come from the same animal!
Homer: [Chuckles] Yeah, right Lisa. A wonderful, magical animal.

Some Jews, it is said, are fixated on blonds, like the dark haired South American's fascination with children's TV host Xuxa. Others wonder about Jesus--or perhaps just about people who wear Jews for Jesus T-shirts above their fanny packs. As for me, my fascination with the non-kashrut goes back to my childhood. Perhaps it's my German ancestry, perhaps it was my father's choice in sandwiches, but I revel in the wonder of a food that can have so many names.

Ham can be from a place: Virginia, Irish, Scotch, Canadian (and how many foods are Canadian?), and even Bayonne (France, not New Jersey, but who's really to say?)

It can be on a lark: Country or Picnic. Out on the town: City or Smoked. Old or young. Ready to eat or just pickled for whatever you want, whenever you want it.

In short, the ham is a seductress. The Xuxa of the deli. At one moment, entertaining us in our childhoods, the next, discarding her pink helicopter and taking it all off for '90s Playboy (you find the link) and reducing us to tears. (Or was that just me?)

Regardless, I end with a very short story I wrote in the 1980s. And tomorrow, I promise, no more traif.

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The Ultimate Cold Cut: Spiced Ham (The Real Stuff, not SPAM)My late father had been raised in an orthodox house, but his favorite foods, which he could make on his own without my mother's help were:

1. A BLT.
2. A grilled cheese sandwich with bacon a tomato.
3. A spiced ham sandwich (not SPAM!) with raw onions on white bread.
4. A kosher hot dog grilled on wax paper with cold sauerkraut (has to be cold).
5. Bananas and sour cream. Really.
   

3 out of 5, clearly not kosher. 2 just weird. So how come I felt guilty when I first was given a bagel with cream cheese and bacon by a friend? Because the friend was Christian. That's why.

On the car ride today back from my cousin's funeral, stuck on the LIE, we had the following discussion about kosher, my father and pork, and what to put on pastrami:

My sister: I once decorated this bar mitzvah party at the W Hotel in Union Square. The theme was "Sushi." They had these giant cakes made to look like pieces of raw fish on rice.

Me: Doesn't sound very kosher.

My sister: I think they only had cakes that looked like sushi. No actual sushi.

Me (considering this): Come to think of it, where did Dad get his love of pork products?

Uncle H: Not at our mother's house, that's for sure.

My sister: He did really love his pork products.

Uncle H: You know, your father was the first person to make me a BLT. I'd never seen such a thing.

Aunt G (known for her love of lobster): And where did he make it?

Uncle H: At my mother's house.

All of us: While she was a alive?

Uncle H: No, after she had passed away. Although, if she'd been alive, I'm sure seeing your father making a BLT would have killed her.

Me: And he had the nerve to criticizes me for putting mayo on pastrami.

Uncle H: Oh, I wouldn't have put up with that either.

So does anyone else put mayonnaise on pastrami? Bacon on their cream cheese? What is going to become of us? And lastly, can you believe that there's a website for a kosher seasoning to make everything taste like bacon? Really.

 

I’m supposed to be promoting my book, Typo: The Last American Typesetter or How I Made and Lost $4 Million. That’s what I’ve been doing for months, trying to squeeze a few more sales out of YouTube, my website, and random appearances.

But on Saturday, Yom Kippur, my cousin Lydia died, and instead of spending Monday wondering how to convince the readers of Jewcy to buy my book, I’m going to be at a funeral on Long Island.

Now here’s the thing, I hardly knew Lydia. I hardly know any of my family. My father, one of six children of two Jewish immigrants from the Austro-Hungarian Empire, was a recluse by nature. Sure, he had his “reasons” for distancing us from the family, including perceived slights in rates from my uncle’s insurance business and lack of attention to my mother’s illness. (When the neighbors voted against our plans to build a carport, he stopped speaking with all of them till his dying day.)

But, the truth was he wasn’t good with people, didn’t like feeling out of place, and preferred to be alone.

How do I know? Because I have always felt the same pull at social gatherings. At every party I’ve ever attended, I’ve felt like an outcast at the first sound of laughter—kind of like Adam Sandler in Punch Drunk Love when he kicks in those three glass doors at his sister’s house to cut the tension of having to figure out how to be pleasant company. Or, as my father told me one day sitting on the curb while my mother went shopping, “Look at the all the people. Most people don’t understand how good it is to just watch everyone go by.”

When my father died in 2003, alone in his bed, cursing the last few of us who still tried to keep tabs on him, Uncle Harvey became my last close blood relative other than my sister.

I had called Uncle Harvey back then. He invited me to his apartment and we talked for hours—catching up on decades of distance.

“When your father got married, do you know how I found out?” he asked me. “He called me up to tell me he wouldn’t be coming to New York that weekend. I asked him why, and he said, because he was getting married.”

“And when your mother died,” he continued, “I had called him to check on him and he mentioned it, just so matter of fact. Like how much it had been raining. I couldn’t believe it. We had been so close as kids, and I said, ‘Arty, how come you didn’t tell me.’ And he said he, ‘Didn’t want to bother me.’”

There were tears in my uncle’s eyes. And I hadn’t known. I didn’t know that pulling yourself away left such a hole in other people’s lives.

And so tomorrow, I will be going to the funeral with my uncle Harvey and his wife, my aunt Gail. There is always a chance to reverse course while you're alive. There is always hope.

I’m supposed to be promoting my book, Typo: The Last American Typesetter or How I Made and Lost $4 Million. That’s what I’ve been doing for months, trying to squeeze a few more sales out of YouTube, my website, and random appearances.