We sold a few books last month at the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books.

For two days I stood in hot sunshine along the tent-lined midway like a pre-casino Atlantic City barker trying to persuade marks to step off the boardwalk and take a seat in the brightly-lit auction showroom. I wasn’t looking for suckers, though. I was searching for readers willing to risk a few dollars in exchange for a mind trip courtesy of Blood Red Syrah, my gruesome California wine country thriller.

Grant, the young check-out guy at the Trader Joe’s near LAX, expressed interest in why we were in town when we stopped for supplies. He said he’d stop by. So when he and his friend showed up at the book fair I gave him a free autographed copy.

“Just tell people about the book,” I said.

A personable thinker whose word seemed good, he promised he would.

We had fun, stayed in a great Airbnb apartment with deck views of the ocean and the LA skyline, ate hip foodie food and learned I’m not Dave Barry, who also appeared at the festival. Barry had a whole room full of people gather to hear his thoughts on reading and writing. I had the carnival midway. I’m happier being Corbett and wouldn’t write a gimmicky book about my dog even if I had a mutt to call my own.

Several months ago polished LA Times columnist Steve Lopez told me I could send him a copy of my book when I emailed to tell him about the novel. He and I go back to 1988 when we met at the Democratic National Convention in Atlanta, Ga. I sold him my press pass for three beers when I didn’t need it anymore. I sent him another email when I got a spot at the festival and invited him to stop by for a visit, maybe even write a column about a long-haired senior citizen outlaw novelist with no financial support from the book publishing world who nonetheless spreads hard news through California because he has something to say to those who live in the Golden State or are enamored with its luster.

Lopez called me once when I was living in Santa Maria and covering the Michael Jackson trial to tell me he saw me on TV. He called me one of America’s “last authentic” newspaper columnists. I should have known when Lopez never ventured three hours north to spend even an hour in court with Jackson that he and I were different breeds.

He never showed up to say hello at the festival.

So we headed for the Mexican border to see what we could see on the edge of San Diego. Walking two miles through dense underbrush inhabited by rattlesnakes, mud and uneven dirt trails led us to sand, the Pacific Ocean and the ominous metal barrier that separates nations and ends in the sea. Three Border patrol choppers droned in the sky as an officer wearing cammies and a net face covering straddled a drab green ATV and checked his phone as we approached from behind. Riders on horseback approached from the border. Snakes took cover as posted metal signs warned of their presence.

Back to the Ocean Beach Noodle House and Saki Bar across the street from the 50s cottage we rented for a couple of days where the white painted wooden front screen door slammed and bounced, reminding me of when I was a kid.

In the morning, Stephanie and I drank powerful coffee from Tiki Port next door, ordering Brazilian Sambazon Acai bowls loaded with organic granola, fresh strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, honey, fruit, coconut shavings, and other mystical natural ingredients. We noticed a small wooden “take-a-book-leave-a-book” lending library built into the outside wall by the take-out window. When I asked Mari, the young woman behind the counter, if I could leave a copy of Blood Red Syrah, she seemed so intrigued by the book I went back to the cottage, signed and left two more for free – one for her, one for her equally sharp and literate co-worker Amelia, and one for Ocean Beach.

“Just tell people about the book,” I said.

Then north to the Central Coast where Mexicans rule and their culture prevails despite United States government swindlers with guns stealing their land in the mid-1800s and calling it their own. Mexico should ask for the land to be returned and raise hell at the United Nations. Ask for moral support from the free world as well as Cuba, Russia, China and North Korea in exchange for whatever they might finagle from their operatives.

Give Ireland back to the Irish, too.

We spent a great night at Downtown Fridays in Santa Maria, an open air city fair loaded with food, music and fun for everybody. The Lopez family set us up with a tent, chairs, translators, food and arrived better equipped than a team of professional publishing house merchandisers. Masked Lucha Libre Mexican wrestlers and their promoter Chad the Wild Bull also set up camp beside us. We sold a few books there, as well.

The next day we attended baby Anthony Lopez’ baptism party, a great celebration of family and friends we made when we lived in Santa Maria.

At night we headed back to the Laughing Buddha cottage, our televisionless meditation retreat in Shell Beach, where we read, did yoga and morning qi gong overlooking the sea. Before we split, I signed and gave free books to Nichole and Carissa who looked after me and Stephanie, providing magic margaritas, thick shrimp enchiladas and sizzling vegetable platters at Zorro’s Café & Cantina.

“Just tell people about the book,” I said.

Flying coast to coast gave us chest germs. Getting home gave us refuge. I don’t care if I never see LA again. As bad as Wilkes-Barre and Scranton and all the little patch towns in between have become – and they’re getting worse instead of better – I’m more comfortable with the local dysfunction in my home community. Not that I can do much to change the culture at large. I’ll do what I can to change what few minds and lives I can change in my little part of the country.

I’ll do that by writing my crazy books, novels that give me hope that somebody will read and think and take action in their own life to improve their lives and the lives of those around them. Maybe that will happen. Maybe it won’t. At least people will know I tried. At least I’ll know I tried.

If you read my novel, you, too, will have tried.

Then what?

Just tell people about the book.