March 19, 2002. About a month or so back, I was walking on Telegraph Avenue with my friend Leela (who is now my wife), watching happy young people skipping along with bones in their noses as they gawked at the purveyors of various street goods. Suddenly in front of me, in the middle of the blocked-off street amidst vendors and frolickers, appeared Julia Vinograd. I pulled Leela along and walked toward Ms Vinograd. "Oh, Hi," said I, "I've been looking for you." She was hardly surprised, and asked if I would like to buy her new book, Beside Myself. Of course I would, and I did! How else would a street poet make enough money to eat than by selling books? From deep in one of her magic pockets, she extracted a CD of herself reading some of her poems. Of course I bought one of those as well. She signed her book, too. Together, these talismans cost me the happiest $20 I spent all weekend. Prices have gone up in 20 odd years, but thankfully technology has bloomed as well. Now I can have the voice and the book for nothing more than the price of a rather sumptuous lunch on the oddest avenue left of the Mississippi.
