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Imagine if J.D. Salinger had a sense of humour ... this intelligent, off-beat novel is fast-paced, wicked, dark and extremely funny. My publishers are trying to convince me that books are like albums and sell better when they are released posthumously. Seeing the point, I ask if I can at least fake my own death, but it seems that is fundamentally dishonest and they flatly refuse to be involved in any such fraud. So just in case I've croaked by the time you read this (and everyone but me is filthy rich), here is my story: one day I'm trying to get into the pants of the most beautiful girl in the world, Nina Pennington, and the next day I'm in the back of a limo on the road to rock'n'roll superstardom opening up for Bowie. But we hit a bump or two -- a few dead Mafia hitmen here, a nyphomaniac next door there, not to mention a few dying Latin teachers, narcoleptic nuns, inept policemen, unscupulous laywers, buffoon reporters, huckster televangelists and greedy relatives -- and now for some unknown reason a lot of people don't want to talk to me anymore. When sixteen-year-old Ric Thibault's story opens with his mother's attempted suicide note: While I'm dead... feed the dog and h (less)

Imagine if J.D. Salinger had a sense of humour ... this intelligent, off-beat novel is fast-paced, wicked, dark and extremely funny. My publishers are trying to convince me that books are like albums and sell better when they are released (…more)