So I resolved to meet the man himself: Chairman Avakian.
As it happened, I had an idea where to start. When I used to live nearby, I would sometimes kill time by browsing in the Revolution Books in Cambridge. I enjoyed leafing through the pamphlets by Mao, listening to the cashier explain to curious patrons how Deng Xiaoping was a sellout. The small stock always included several shelves devoted to the works of Bob Avakian. It was a name I hadn't thought of in years until I saw the New York Review ad.
The store was now upstairs, having moved when streetside rents got too high. It still had the dusty works by obscure presses, and the books by lefty heroes like Howard Zinn and Noam Chomsky. I asked the new cashier, a serious fellow with an old-school Boston accent named Ben O'Leary, where I could find Bob Avakian.
"It's not something that's going to get discussed," O'Leary said, ominously.
"Do you know where he is?" I asked.
"I'm not saying whether I know or not," O'Leary said.
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