So, I’m reading Punkzilla by Adam Rapp for my YA book club. It’s about a 14-year-old runaway and references hand jobs, Greyhound buses, and crystal meth in the first three pages. That pretty much tells you what you need to know, and normally a book like this sinks or swims based on how authentic the voice seems. The voice here is a little inconsistent—quasi-literate one sentence and tossing off a brilliant bon mot the next—but the book swims anyway, because it’s a good story and those bon mots are just so bon. Here are some of my favorites so far:
p. 7
“The point is that when I was thieving I had to target the extra weak or the super slow.”
p. 20
“Once I caught her staring at me when I was mowing the lawn. I was mowing it with hatred for all things.”
p. 52
“Sharks are cool because they never sleep and they’re so invincible with mystery.”
p. 64
“I think that as a general rule lonely people give other lonely people money a lot.”
Some people would say that it was unprofessional of me to walk around with my shirt untucked for five hours of in-office freelancing. Those people need to consider the alternative:
(This is actually the least of Brad Penny’s problems these days…)
Because, yeah, shortly after I arrived, I knelt down to pick something up and KA-BREAK! KA-TOTALZIPPERFAIL! I mean, you don’t normally consider your boxer-briefs part of your ensemble, but for a few moments there it was like “Put your Hanes up in the ay-er/And wave ‘em like you just don’t cay-er!” Not great. I went from looking vaguely Amish, in dark jeans and a blue button-up shirt, to looking vaguely Rumspringa.
On the other hand, I was very productive. Except for a few brief trips (so to speak), I stayed at my desk all afternoon.
Every day people arrive at this site by searching for information about the dog in this picture, often by very different names. I have listed three of the most popular search terms below. Which is the actual name of this regal fellow?
A) Burmese mountain dog B) Bernese mountain dog C) Bernie’s mountain dog
After suffering a head injury, Johnny Damon signed with the Yankees.
1. It looks like Johnny Damon has officially parted ways with the Yankees. Good. I never did master the art of rooting against that guy. (And now he can grow that Captain Caveman hair back!) Obviously, as a Sox fan, I will always owe Damon a debt of gratitude for his time in Boston. He was also one of my favorite athletes to work with when I was the baseball editor at Sports Illustrated Kids. Basically, he’s a great, gutsy player, a thoughtful interview subject, an all-around good guy, and now, praise the lord and pass the biscuits, no longer a Yankee.
3. I stayed in last night, one light burning, and read the whole second half of Joe Schreiber’s No Doors, No Windows. It’s fantastic. If you’re interested in reading a smart, adrenalized horror novel—basically, a good old-fashioned ghost story with the dial turned up to 11—this is your book.
Leave book event in Brooklyn, 11 pm G train three stops to Broadway
Realize mistake G train one stop back to Metropolitan
Walk to L train L train four stops to Union Square 6 train eight stops to 77th
Arrive home, 1:15 am
People say a lot of things about New York City: It’s electric, it never sleeps, it’s brimming with opportunity, there’s a rat every three feet…. What they neglect to mention: It’s slippery! For the second time in a little over a month I nearly face-planted yesterday.
There was a torrential downpour in the morning, and the Brooklyn Bridge subway stop was flooding badly. My foot hydroplaned on some rain-slick tile, and I stumbled onto one knee. In sports terms, I would’ve been down in college football but not the NFL (no contact). I threw my arms out to either side like a tightrope walker and managed to stay upright.
A group of tourists watched eagerly, but I was back up and one my way before they could snap a picture. I don’t know what to make of these near misses. I’m not sure if I’m tempting fate or dodging it. My little boat keeps dipping down into the trough only to rise back up on the very next wave.
It reminds me of when I was 12 or 13 and the only way I knew my bike rides were definitely over was that I was lying on the ground bleeding. Of course, back then I was as durable as a hockey puck. These days, well, I’ll settle for lucky.
SAFE to say I just finished the first draft of my baseball book, PLUNKED. My final writing day was my biggest: 2,007 words, all in order. I’d say it feels good to finish strong, but heck, it just feels good to finish. I have a solid week of freelancing ahead, but I am really looking forward to editing this one after that.
I overshot my target word count by 5K, but I am willing to sacrifice all of those words, and countless baserunners, in the name of ruthless editing. I feel like I have something really amazing here, and I’m excited to show it to a few people, but first I need to clean it up, tie its shoes, and make it presentable. And I will, but for now, the book is written, the file is backed up, there’s a smile on my face, and that other sport on TV.
Thrill to unimaginable drama—and unflattering angles—as I read from Joe Schreiber’s excellent new horror novel, No Doors, No Windows. It’s excerptional!
