Originally posted by: UberNeuman
Originally posted by: DealMonkey
Oh gee, that makes it so much better. I don't think I can roll my eyes back far enough to express my disdain.
As do I as well...
OK, let me see if I got this right. You don't care for Palin and you don't care for Lynn Vincent either.
I am not familiar with the book collaboration Lynn Vincent is most noted for, ?Same Kind of Different as Me,? which has sold more than 560,000 copies.
It has spent 75 weeks on The New York Times best-seller list and raised millions of dollars for homeless shelters. That's a good thing, right? And so unlike the sordidness of ACORN.
My guess is that you would never read a book like this, as you won't read Palin's book.
Fact is, many people seek out inspirational reading.
Reviews of Same Kind of Different As Me
First on Amazon -
Same Kind Of Different As Me
It is hard to find books that have such overwhelming praise, isn't it?
And what does the publishing industry say?
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Marcia Z. Nelson, Religion BookLine -- Publishers Weekly, 5/31/2006
An international art dealer and a modern-day slave from Louisiana become friends after the art dealer is roped into volunteering at a homeless shelter by his saintly wife. Sounds like it's got to be fiction, but that's the true story told in Same Kind of Different as Me by Ron Hall and Denver Moore (W Publishing, June). Co-author Hall, the art dealer of the pair, spoke to RBL from Miami, where he had just arrived after a week's vacation on his boat, saying, "Now that I have lived it for so long, it doesn't seem quite so out of the ordinary."
By contrast, Moore spent almost the first 30 years of his life on Louisiana cotton plantations, where he and his family grew and picked cotton and were never paid cash for their work, but given credit. The vicissitudes of his life, including a stint in Louisiana's notorious Angola prison, eventually brought him to a homeless shelter in Fort Worth, where Hall's wife Deborah, a volunteer, prompted by faith, love and persistence to become increasingly involved in the shelter, singles out Moore. She maneuvers the suspicious Moore and her Suburban-driving, Starbucks-drinking husband into a friendship that grows once "Mr. Tuesday" - the day the Halls volunteer at the shelter - realizes the man he has been calling Dallas is actually named Denver. With hesitations over social differences and revelations of human similarities, the story of intertwining lives knots decisively when Deborah develops colon cancer and dies.
Moore suggested the two write a book, which began as a therapeutic exercise for Hall. "I really wrote the book to honor my wife and honor Denver, who both deserved a place in history," Hall explained. Moore told his half, and Hall wrote it and his half, rewriting the manuscript 14 times before he got up the nerve to take it to agent Lee Hough at Alive Communications. Co-writer Lynn Vincent was brought in to help craft the story and also to vet the events of the true story. The controversy over author James Frey's embellished memoir cast a long shadow over the book during its preparation. "It made us be much more rigorous than we otherwise would have been," said Greg Daniel, v-p and associate publisher at W. "It looks like we're as clean as we can possibly be."
The once homeless man now lives with his art dealer buddy, who owns residences in Dallas and New York and a ranch near Fort Worth. Moore has recovered from an aneurysm and stroke and is pursuing a new career as a painter. "He's doing some interesting self-portraits," the art dealer says. The authors' profits from the book will go to the Union Gospel Mission in Fort Worth, which now includes the Deborah L. Hall Memorial Chapel.
And these are the two guys the book is about...
DENVER MOORE'S BIOGRAPHY
Denver was born in rural Louisiana in January 1937, and after several tragic events went to live on a plantation in Red River Parish with his Uncle James and Aunt Ethel, who were share croppers.
Sometime around 1960, he hopped a freight train and began a life as a homeless drifter until 1966 when a judge awarded him a 10 year contract for hard labor at the Louisiana State School of Fools, aka, Angola Prison!
According to Denver, he went in a man and left a man and received a standing ovation from prisoners in the yard as he walked out of there in 1976. For the next 22 years he was homeless on the streets of Fort Worth, Texas. However, there were a few times after a brush with the law, he'd ride the rails visiting cities and hobo jungles across America, sampling regional cuisine like Vienna sausage with fellow passengers.
In 1998, "He never met Miss Debbie," Miss Debbie met him and his life was changed forever.
Today, he is an artist, public speaker, and volunteer for homeless causes. In 2006, as evidence of the complete turn around of his life, the citizens of Fort Worth honored him as "Philanthropist of the Year" for his work with homeless people at the Union Gospel Mission.
RON HALL'S BIOGRAPHY
While my daddy was fightin´ the big war in the Pacific, my grandmother delivered me in the farmhouse kitchen near Blooming Grove, Texas, in September 1945. This was back in those days when country girls knew about birthin´ babies and lucky for me, because my granddaddy and the town doctor were on the bucket brigade of a barn fire that night. I grew up in the bed of my granddad's Chevy pickup till it was time to go to school.
My first grade teacher was an old maid named Miss Ellis at Riverside Elementary in Fort Worth who taught me to write and draw square houses with stick figures. Unfortunately, the school was torn down about 30 years ago to make way for a new 7-11. And that's a cryin´ shame because lots of folks have inquired it they could visit if and see the red brick wall where my 2nd grade teacher, Miss Poe, made me stick my nose in that chalk circle.
In the third grade, showing signs of talent, my momma curled my hair with a "Toni Home Permanent" and took me to an audition for the Texas Boys Choir. I made the soprano section, singing in shopping centers and county fairs for three years, until the director saw a whisker on my chin, and my voice moved south of the range for choirboys. During that time however, I managed to win "runner up" in the Browning Heights Elementary talent show by singing a rendition of Snookie Lanson's "The Naughty Lady of Shady Lane."
The next year, my first original creation was a football mum fashioned from chrysanthemums I picked from our yard, adding glitter and streamers for my fourth grade cheerleader sweetheart. That was the only day I ever got to play halfback on a football team.
By the fifth grade I began to excel at dancing and racing on roller skates continuing for years, winning trophies and colored ribbons until I traded in my skates at age 14 for the down payment on a ?55 Chevy convertible. At fifteen I was singing in a rock band playing at local VFW halls performing hits like "Mack the Knife" and "Scotch and Soda" for $5 a night. Continuing to explore all the talents God had given me (and several He did not), I started riding bulls until my nerve failed me when the chute gate opened. Next I took up boxing until a Lena Pope Home orphan named Jeff Perez beat me within an inch of my life in the Golden Gloves tournament.
Graduating from TCU, I managed to avoid classes on art, literature, or creative writing while pursuing Tri-Deltas and fraternity parties which made my resume prime for the job of Private in Uncle Sam's Army. With a little smooth talkin´ I landed a job in Colorado as a TOP SECRET nuclear weapons inspector! Using all the skills I learned in the Army, back in Fort Worth I landed a job selling Campbell soup. I dusted off Tomato Soup cans for $500 per month, while Andy Warhol made millions in New York painting them! In 1969, I married Deborah Short, my college sweetheart, who was embarrassed by the feather duster I had to carry in my back pocket, so I quit and got an MBA to become a municipal bond trader at the local bank.
In 1971, in Houston on a mission to buy water and sewer bonds for my bank, I happened on an art gallery where I bought my first original oil painting. Eighty-nine days later, under pressure, I sold it for a $2,000 profit, accidentally launching my art career. Actually, Debbie threatened to divorce me after finding out that I bought it on a 90 day loan by pledging the 50 shares of Ford stock her daddy gave her for a graduation present. I used the entire profit to smooth her ruffled feathers with diamonds and furs!
After twenty-five years I put art on the back burner to chase my dream of being a cowboy. My days were filled with ranching, team roping, cowboy poetry and anything else Debbie asked me to do, like being Denver's friend. After her death in November 2000, and unable to sleep, I began writing the book and making sculpture. I would stay up writing all night, and when writer's block set in I would fashion tiny sculptures from card board, Post-it-Notes, straight pins, Elmer's glue and paper clips. One day I took these to a welding shop near the ranch and with the help of a real welder began making them into large steel sculptures, "yard art" as my cowboy friends like to call it.
But with the success of our book Same Kind of Different as Me, I no longer find time for welding, selling or anything else but carrying Debbie's torch to cities all across America and playin´ with grand kids who have tagged me "Rocky Pop."
And thanks to folks from coast to coast the books are selling as fast as we can print them. That's the good news. However, most of the sculptures haven't found a home so they dot the landscape at Rocky Top providing buzzard roosts until the Sierra Club finds them unnatural and demands their removal.
(Ron Hall is a wealthy international art dealer who travels the world buying and selling rare and expensive works of art.)