Different Slants

New Documentary on Robert M. Katzman and The Magazine Museum by Brad Meyer and Sofia Kerpan

Bob — Thu, 16 May 2013 14:21:13 +0000

Brad Meyer:
IT’S FINALLY HERE!!! After months of planning, days of shooting, and over a hundred hours in post, my short documentary film, Out of Print, is finally complete! This is my second final short film. A huge thanks to Robert M. Katzman for being such a captivating man, and a special thanks to Sofia Kerpan for being a kick ass documentary partner: she deserves way more credit than I gave her. I kindly ask you all to take several minutes to indulge in the fascinating, emotional, and inspiring world of Bob and his collection in “Out of Print”. ENJOY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5sNxlgshryY

Robert M. Katzman My appreciation for your compassionate film about a topic and situation few people can understand, or worse, know about at all. Thanks to you Brad, and of course, to the lovely Prom Queen, Sofia.

I didn’t make this film, I was the subject. The filmakers are from The Columbia College Film School. It is the second documentary, the first visible on my Oldzines.com site made by DePaul University Film School. That one is 14.5 minutes long. People tell me they find them fascinating. To me, they are eulogies while I’m still here and very sad. I watch them and am reminded how powerless I am to be unable to effect change.

You won’t see it that way, so I hope you will look at them. They are serious history of what is disappearing day by day in America:News printed on paper in America.

Racial Prejudice and a Hyde Park Newsstand in Chicago…by Robert M. Katzman

Bob — Wed, 01 May 2013 17:11:24 +0000

I came to Hyde Park in April, ’64 from an odd ethnic bubble of only Irish and Jews, mixed together with periodic success on the South Side of Chicago, near 87th Street. Never had any relationships or encountered any black people anywhere.

There were two black girls in my last year at Caldwell School whom no one would talk to. It was stunning. I was both appalled by this situation and I was unpopular as well, so I got it immediately and befriended them. They were suspicious of me at first (and who wouldn’t be?), but then visibly relieved that the ice was broken for them. Except it wasn’t broken.

We would talk in the halls or in the playground, but there was no contact between us out of school. I had no classes with them. I simply didn’t know what to do with a black female friend, at fourteen. It’s a long time ago now, but one of them was named Ardelia Baker, and the other one was named Hazel Dennis. They probably went to Bowen High School with the other thousands of South Siders.

Even going to Lab School didn’t acclimate me to interacting with black people because the minorities at Lab were rich and I wasn’t in their crowd. Always something.

Opening Bob’s Newsstand in August ’65 changed everything for me, and maybe a tiny bit for Hyde Park, too. If I was to succeed in my primitive wooden shack, I was forced to overcome my hesitancy and learn to initiate conversation with strangers, constantly, and all day, every day.

People in Hyde Park may have eventually taken it for granted that I was comfortable with anyone and a natural at this. That was never true. Overcoming my shyness was extremely difficult considering what I was doing, selling newspapers, but in school I spoke to virtually no one. Two worlds, neither one the right one.

Over time, I met thousands of people of every race, discovered interracial marriage existed, made friends, met families, watched the babies grow up over twenty years, hired uncountable black, Mexican and Asian kids, discovered prejudice in black people against Jews, but not me, never me, and we could talk about it. Bob’s Newsstand was some kind of miniature isolated zone of civilization where race, religion, age and gender were of no consequence and only “could you do your job?” mattered.

I met African cab drivers, Jamaican nurses, black cops, thieves, doctors, prostitutes, ministers, professors, Nigerian university students and Black Jews. That shack was my own decades-long constant education in becoming human, becoming compassionate and learning to see people for what they were and who they were inside of their skin.

Lab School was a nice experience, occasionally, but that wooden shack on 51st and Lake Park made me into a decent person of the world and taught me the absolute essentialness of tolerance. I have an education that is no longer available because all the instructors died. I partially write out of a sense of obligation. If I don’t, then whatever they taught me dies with me. I’ve published five books and finished five more, like its a race to record everything. I am unsure what else will be able to be published.

Old men, old women, old cops all pouring tales into me, warning me, teaching me, and then everything I could understand became woven together into a perspective of my own, but a blended perspective.

Finally, there was a girl, Gloria Rogers, simple incredibly beautiful, so well built, and black. I never had the nerve to ask her out. I always regretted it. Hard to break free of a prejudiced family’s restrictions. Years later, I learned from a mutual friend that she, in fact, liked me and (maybe) would have gone out with me. That only added to my misery and regret. She remains eternally 16 in my memory. She left our school our junior year. Never saw her again. I can never fix that timidity. And stupidity.

Fear and Drawing, on the South Side of Chicago…by Robert M. Katzman

Bob — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 16:19:01 +0000

Sunday morning reflection, age 63, while filled with cold medication:

My mother, then Anne Warman (1921-2001), went to Hyde Park High School 1935-39 when it was a decidedly Jewish place whatever the %. When I began in Lab School after fleeing the South Side in the middle of the night, where I lived with her from 1951 to 1964, I eventually joined the Midway school newspaper. One of my responsibilities, after teacher Wayne Brasler discovered I could draw, was to make editorial cartoons. I had no particular title. I did whatever I was told to do and went where he sent me.One time in 1967, he began a series on high school in the area and sent me around by bus to draw the front of the schools. This may still exists in the school library archive, if they have one.

One school was Hyde Park High, very close to Lab School but not the same student population almost thirty years after my mother left there. It was pretty much 100% a black school population at that point and Brasler sending me to draw that school’s facade while sitting on an elevated hill in the park facing it was a remarkably terrifying prospect for me. But I did it.

I went there early in the morning before the first bell rang for the classes. I drew in pen and ink as quickly as I could. It didn’t take long for the hundreds of kids milling around the school to notice me sitting there doing whatever I was doing from their perspective below me, looking up at the skinny white boy madly sketching. I was pointed out by someone and soon people were watching me, watching them. I was uncertain what to do and kept drawing with little alternative.

Then, suddenly, a car with what seemed to be a dozen kids in it drove up on the hill from the street directly toward where I was sitting. They were laughing, yelling and waving. I jumped up and took off, running really fast the several blocks north to my school, terrified. I kept a death grip on my damn sketchbook and the drawing was soon published. It was drawn fast, but it was good.

I know now that those kids were playing with me, just having fun with the clueless white kid in an alien environment, pretending they were going to do something horrible to me. I know that now 46 years later. I wish I knew it then.

Speaking Well of Marshall Korshak……by Robert M. Katzman

Bob — Sat, 20 Apr 2013 15:37:07 +0000

© April 18, 2013

I write on another blog about Hyde Park in a southern part of Chicago six or so miles from the Downtown area, a diverse intellectual community containing many things but most famously the University of Chicago, its experimental K through 12 school, the Laboratory School and the Museum of Science and Technology.

Sometimes I respond to what another person writes and sometimes that response can stand alone here, because it expresses reflections that might mean something to a larger group of whoever my readers are. How can I know you? Facebook is, illogically, faceless. So, Strangers, see if what I wrote matters to you, possibly in some other context.

There was a significant political person named Marshall Korshak, mostly forgotten today, who was a Chicago Democratic Party powerbroker there in the ’50′s,’60′s and ’70′s. Not everyone loved him. I responded to that expressed feeling in his defense. Marshall, born in 1911, died at 85, in 1996. This is what I wrote about him:

I was reading this thread until I read the part about Marshall Korshak and some not so complimentary remarks about him. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. Me, too. But my relationship with him couldn’t have been more unbalanced.

He was the single most powerful politician I encountered when I was in HP after opening the newsstand, besides Ald. Holman which isn’t for here, now.

After I bought and rebuilt the newsstand at 53rd and Lake Park in 1970, I was being threatened from different directions (as usual) because of the very strange shape of the structure and that I wanted electricity in there for light and heat–unheard of for a corner newsstand. We were serfs, after all, meant to suffer. Too many to pay off and too many street inspector threats for me to deal with, I went to him for protection. All we had in common was Passover.

He was a rich and important man, or so I was told. Normally in Hyde Park protection, depending on the situation and personality, had a price tag. Marshall agreed to see me after someone who knew both of us asked him to do that. An intermediate politician.

Whatever I expected, I didn’t dress for the occasion and was as direct with him as I was with the (then) animalistic newspaper truck drivers, except I was polite with the language.

He decided he wanted to know more about me, where I was from, where I went to school, what synagogue, what were my plans, did I have a girl, was my family from the old, rough, immigrant West Side…and this went on for a while. I didn’t ask him any questions besides the first one. We were not in parallel universes, from my perspective.

Except it turned out, we were, from HIS perspective because he told me I reminded him of himself when he was a kid and a real hustler trying to make something of himself. I did not see any reason to argue with his point of view. Who knew where this would go?

When he was done verifying my religious, Chicago and Eastern European roots, and that I was a Democrat–maybe not in that order–he told not to worry about anything, anymore. Anyone gives me trouble, refer them to him. We shook hands. He wished me luck. Not one cent ever passed between us, unless he bought a newspaper from me and he wouldn’t take a free one, ever.

Maybe a guardian angel, for a while, but I think he really did see himself in me, very nostalgically, and he wasn’t, in effect, going to shake himself down. He made a major difference in my vulnerable, insecure sort of life. I was and am grateful to him.

Whatever any of the people who read this story thought of him in the bigger picture, I believe fairness requires that you know how he treated someone powerless who needed him, and how he responded. Just because a man or woman is dead, doesn’t mean their reputation shouldn’t be defended as long as there is someone still able to that. Today, I am that small voice, but a long time ago, Marshall Korshak heard it.

zip@oldzines.com
oldzines.com (website)
Store:Magazine Museum (847)677-9444
4906 Oakton St. Skokie, Il 60077
Mon-Fri:10-5  Weekends:10-2
100,000 Magazines back to 1576 for birthdays, etc.
50,000 posters @ $10.00 each

Silent Store, Surreal Reflections…by Robert M. Katzman

Bob — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 18:55:15 +0000

Chilly April

Friday morning

Surreal Chicago thoughts

I am sitting in my

Silent store

Overflowing with

Wrinkled history

Printed on

Gently yellowing newsprint

Dusty floor

Dusty ceiling

Very aware

that the

Current generation

is quite happy

With

“virtual”

and

Has no interest in

desire to own

“actual”

Twenty-something couples

Wander in here

Usually mystified

Sometimes I use the analogy:

“So, would either of you prefer a virtual kiss

instead of the real thing?”

And they smile

At each other

But they don’t comprehend.

Surrounded by 140,000 periodicals

I muse to myself:

Did I ever sell

Any of these old magazines

As a teenager

At my now

Ghostly

Bob’s Newsstand

In Hyde Park

To someone

on 51st street

Forty years ago?

And did their grandchild

Sell it back

To a much older me

Because they had

No interest

Not a whit of

Curiosity in

Ancient News

Printed on paper?

If I had

Magic glasses

That could make

any magazine

Which had my fingerprints

Still on it

Glow

with a blue tint

Would anything in here

Light up?

Would everything?

Like Monarch Butterflies

Returning to

Mexico

Are

All my

Surviving magazines

returning

To me?

Will I be found

Some equally grey day

Buried under a

Cascading

Never-ending

Paper Waterfall?

Pages & Pages & Pages

of:

Time

Newsweek

Playboy

Geographic

Vogue

Colliers

Life

Chicago Daily News

The New York Times

and

Countless color

Comic Sections

Extinct American newspapers?

When

Print on paper

Itself is

But a memory

The very Old

and

Very stubborn

Readers of real news

Who once could:

Hold it in my hands!

Damn it!!

Who never accepted

Virtual

Even when they

Themselves

Became–

Weathered

Wrinkled

and

Forgotten

Old News

Roger Ebert: Film Critic/Mensch Eulogy…by Robert M. Katzman 4/4/13

Bob — Fri, 05 Apr 2013 03:42:52 +0000

© April 4, 2013

Roger Ebert died of cancer today. I knew him.

In the late 1960′s, when I owned Bob’s Newsstand in Hyde Park, I sold the Chicago Sun-Times every day, and always read his column. I was a teenager. I loved the movies and would eventually see about 200 a year, both foreign and domestic. When the University of Chicago Downtown Extension offered Film Criticism classes taught by Roger, I signed up for it twice, in 1970. I was 20, he was 27.

We became very friendly, I joked that I sold more copies of his column every day than anyone and he was a nice kind man, and funny, too. Many times I told him to gather his columns into a book and that I’d sell it in my newsstand, and he laughed. But when my newsstand also became a bookstore, I did carry his books.

Twenty years after my store closed, in 2004, and I wrote my first book about that life, and then advertised it on Amazon, knowing nothing about marketing or anything modern, I sent Roger a note about the book, thinking he’d appreciate the irony of my also becoming an author. Except now I was 54 and he was 61 and world famous. I didn’t expect a response. We hadn’t communicated in any way for years. I just did it for the hell of it.

In the year I had my book on Amazon, I sold exactly one book, to a Mr. Roger Ebert, who also sent me a copy of his latest as a gift. He was a very busy man. Why did he bother?

It wasn’t what he said that struck me so much, but it was what he did. He made me feel like I mattered, still mattered, to him.

What really counts is how people, powerful people, treat you when no one’s looking.

But, I regret, we shared more than a love for the movies. Both Roger and I were victims, as thousands of others were, of the experimental X-ray therapy for swollen thyroid glands in the late ’40′s and early ’50′s at Michael Reese Hospital in Chicago. But in reality, it was radiation poisoning. In my case, 1951, when I was one.

Gene Siskel, also a customer of mine at that time, by chance was also a casualty of the same situation. I liked him, too. That’s a different story.

I lost my left jaw to salivary cancer, as Roger also did, when I was 18. I have had extensive reconstructive surgery, endlessly it seems, and have remained cancer free for decades. Doctors tell me I’m lucky, and I suppose I am. Meaning still alive and a grandfather. Here, briefly, is an example of why Roger Ebert meant so much to me, besides what I already described:

After 20 years, the Bob’s Newsstands chain closed and I was 35 and virtually unemployable. Roger found out, already knew that I, too, was a writer and told me he’d try to get me a job at the Sun-Times. A month later, a guy called me from the Times and offered me a job. What followed doesn’t matter. What does is that I was effectively nobody, but not to Ebert and he kept his word to me. I loved him for it. He had character and how many people really do?

About Roger. He was, in my experience, a typical, honest, helpful and gracious small town person. I’ve been everywhere, countless small towns and frequently in trouble of some sort. Small town people–complete strangers–always came to my rescue. Pretty stunning in retrospect. To me, small towns are the soul of America, and the “roger ebert” kind of decent people living in them are as common as wheat waving in a field. I don’t miss the critic, as I type this tribute, tho’ that was something about him I deeply admired. I just miss the guy.

Damn it, Roger, I’m gonna miss you. Not like pretend in the movies, but in real life–you were a standup guy.

A Second Cup of Coffee, Staring at the Snow…by Robert M. Katzman

Bob — Tue, 05 Mar 2013 21:52:21 +0000

By Robert M. Katzman © March 5, 2013

Snowbound

Sweet coffee aroma roaming across my face

Windows half steamed up

Like before and after the storm

I watch for traffic

But there’s none

Trees are so pretty

Each branch white above

Black below

Studies in shadow and light

I measure the snow by how high

The cushiony pile is stacked atop the bird feeder

Snowflakes falling at an angle

There and moving on at the same time

Busy storm with places to go

Cars to bury

Snow angels waiting to appear

Photos taken that will remain young in a shoebox

While the angels themselves

Age into reality

My radio is telling me stories

Disaster on the highways

Panicking people clearing the shelves

in Portland

in Denver

in Buffalo

While pretty snow drifts on above me

Silently in Chicago

Good news doesn’t sell ads

I guess

I’m meeting my wife at the train station

Atop a tall stairway

The 2:26 on the Northbound track

I don’t want Grandma to fall

Home from babysitting the little ones

Grandpa would miss her

If she fell

Everyone would miss her

She is the glue

She is the family

Irreplaceable

I’m watching the time

Waiting for her train

Time to suit up

Into all my protective gear

Layer after layer

Scarves, sweaters and boots

Trapping my heat

Pretending not to be fragile

Intent on protecting Grandma

I’ll make her coffee when we get back

Exactly how she likes it

Maybe we’ll watch an old movie

Snuggled together under a warm blanket

Sometimes holding hands

Gradually getting sleepy

Almost melting together

Almost like a single snowdrift

One flake indistinguishable from the other

Teens may think fevered passion

In a car’s back seat

Is the end all and be all

The ultimate wow!

Takes a long time to learn

That the flame gets lower

But burns steady

For a very long time

When you meet the right one

And never let her go

To me

Meeting Grandma

At the station

In the snowstorm

Atop the steps

To keep her safe

To keep her from falling

Being her personal Knight

Is pretty damn hot

I don’t tell her this

She’d say: “You old fool

Used to be a young fool…”

I just put my arm in hers

In a blizzard of flakes

The Snowman and his Lady

Walkin’ on home

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings for hire.
Feel free to call me at the number below.

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale www.Oldzines.com Zip@Oldzines.com

4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847)677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

Poetry? For me, writing poetry is not an option.
It’s a response to emotion. Like cigarette smoke,
it’s fast-flowing, shapeless and with little time to capture it.
Writing poetry in an imperative. I say what I feel compelled to say.

I sell my five published books via mail order and accept major credit cards.
I don’t use PayPal. I just talk to people on the phone.
Fast, reliable service. Read my stories and see what you think.
I’m also available for hire to read my true Chicago stories to organizations
and answer all questions. I autograph my books when I sell them.

Damn Country Boys Can!…by Robert M. Katzman

Bob — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 16:30:30 +0000

By Robert M. Katzman © February 1, 2013

At Dead Man’s Curve

My hot rod swerved

All eighteen wheels sliding

But I twern’t afear’d

That rod was carved from a Model T

Kissed by Henry Ford

An’ afore that, a covered wagon

Racing west through the plains

Flaming arrows piercing the air

My pretty blonde grandma

Screaming and pumpin’ her Winchester

Because damn country people can!

We can hunt bear with an ax

An’ eagles with spears

An’ fish with a machine gun

Damn trout’ll never know what hit ‘em!

We farm our land with oxen

Grow turnips, peaches n’ walnuts

If the gov’ment men ain’t lookin’

Harvest weed by the bushel

Yeah, we country fellers got tradition

We got Passover in ol’ Alabam

Brisket with biskets are tasty

Jack Daniels ‘n matzoh’s the cat’s meow

We’re kin of the Confederacy

Part-Creole and part-French

Part-Cherokee and part-Crockett

An’ all them colors don’t run

Unless Wal-Mart comes calling

An’ then them colors are

Homespun and tie-dyed

Because damn country people can!

We make moonshine in the sunshine

Our women are hot, ready to trot

Even after twenty country kids

Never ever too tired for lovin’ their man!

We like leather boots n’ Tennessee guns

Bowie knives made a oak n’ steel

We bind up our wounds, take care our kin

And live in a world of our own

We elect good ol’ boys to vote our passions

Not New York’s, LA’s or Portland’s

We’re in it, not of it, n’ don’t you forget it–

Because damn country people can!

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!

E-mail: zip@oldzines.com store: www.oldzines.com

Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847) 677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

Expression of Depression…by Robert M. Katzman

Bob — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 16:46:39 +0000

Staring out my kitchen window

Black coffee’s steam wafting ‘round my

Sleepy coffee-colored eyes

I see the eastern sun rising

Shooting black shadows to the west

Silhouetting

A railroad crossing’s barriers

I hear birdsong

The same birdsong

Sometimes a red Cardinal flitting by

Always a couple and no more

Do their beating wings warm them?

Are they watching me, watching them?

I watch cars

Coming and going

Where are they going?

Where have they been?

What does it feel like

To have a reason

To move?

My hands flat on the table

Or wrapped around my warm cup

Drugstore clock’s battery

Keeping up the ticking

Waiting for what?

I don’t know

But something’s coming

I don’t want music

The sound an intrusion

The silence more companionable

No twittering small-talk

I wish I could feel something

Not early

Not late

Nothing

I concentrate on the blue

Networks of veins

Flowing down my hands

Raised up and meandering

Disappearing into my fingers

Likes rivers into the sea

Worker’s hands

Still vital

Wrinkles thick and flexible

Mostly flexible

Not yet parchment skin

But when the sun’s at a certain angle

I see fragility coming

No place I need to go

No one I want to call

Not lonely

Not bored

Suspended

Waiting for something

Worth waiting for

Sun’s straight up

Shadows at a standstill

Time balanced on its toes

Not east

Not west

Looking down on me

What am I expecting?

I want to read

Can’t concentrate

I want to eat

Too moored to bother

Energy stalled

Waiting for…

Well, I don’t know

Sun’s setting

Darkness scaring off the light

Fingers drumming on my table

Dull thumping filling the kitchen

Coffee’s long cold

Don’t want to remember

Don’t want to plan

I wish whatever’s coming

Would come

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!

E-mail: zip@oldzines.com store: www.oldzines.com

Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847) 677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

Chicago Strawberry Blonde…by Robert M. Katzman

Bob — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 18:17:12 +0000

Something romantic
Please
For a moment

46 years ago,
January 27, 1967
Chicago
Had its greatest
Snowstorm
Ever

I was trapped
In my mother’s house
(where I didn’t live)
With a bunch of my sister’s
College friends
There for a party
Also trapped

I was 16
Not a cool 16

Over the next three days
I managed to
Fall in love
With this

Tall
Willowy
Strawberry Blonde
An older woman
Of 18

Who invited me
To neck
With her
The first night
Of that party
As if I knew
What to do

It became a
Passionate
Three days

Then
She was gone
It killed me
I was a junior in
High school
She was a freshman
At UIC
No chance
For me

Now I’m 62
Now she’s 64
But to me
She’s forever 18
No more to say
She’s the one that
Got away

She did write letters
To me
I’d read them
At midnight
Over and over
I still have them

I saw her again
One more time
Nine months later
(don’t make anything of that)
After I bought a car
At 17

I had to drive to
Southern Illinois
Managed
To make a fool
Of myself
Because of how
Intensely
I felt
About her

Then
She introduced me
To her
New fiance

It was a
Long
Long
Drive home
That was
Our last contact.

Was it my worst moment ever?

It was perfect.
Passion in amber.

Pet Clark singing

“My Love”
On the record player

The dreamiest girl
In the room
Wants to neck with me?
On the couch?
When I couldn’t
Get a date
In High school?

Couples lying
All around us
In the dark
I had to
Look around
To figure out
What to do

Two hours earlier
I’d read poetry
In this big room
Filled
With college people

To my amazement
They listened
The Strawberry Blonde
Must have
Really liked it
Evidently

First time I learned
That
Poetry
Really
Matters

I can still
Remember
Her scent

Oh Jesus!!

About the writer and his other life in Skokie, Illinois:

Bob Katzman’s Magazine Museum: 100,000 periodicals back to 1576!
Wall of Rock: 50 years of cool Rock periodicals on display & for sale
4906 Oakton St. (8000 north and 4900 west) Skokie, Ill 60077
(847) 677-9444 Mon-Fri: 10 am to 5 pm / Weekends: 10 am to 2 pm

Katzman’s Publishing Company site: www.FightingWordsPubco.com
Katzman’s online non-fiction stories: www.DifferentSlants.com

I am currently seeking an agent to do more readings.
Feel free to call me at the number above.

Different Slants

New Documentary on Robert M. Katzman and The Magazine Museum by Brad Meyer and Sofia Kerpan

Related Posts:

Racial Prejudice and a Hyde Park Newsstand in Chicago…by Robert M. Katzman

Related Posts:

Fear and Drawing, on the South Side of Chicago…by Robert M. Katzman

Related Posts:

Speaking Well of Marshall Korshak……by Robert M. Katzman

Related Posts:

Silent Store, Surreal Reflections…by Robert M. Katzman

Related Posts:

Roger Ebert: Film Critic/Mensch Eulogy…by Robert M. Katzman 4/4/13

Related Posts:

A Second Cup of Coffee, Staring at the Snow…by Robert M. Katzman

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Damn Country Boys Can!…by Robert M. Katzman

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Expression of Depression…by Robert M. Katzman

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Chicago Strawberry Blonde…by Robert M. Katzman

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