Upside Down in the Guy's Warehouse

I resemble Steven Tyler, Bostonian rock and roll star. He, like me, is native New Yorker. I've got that great accent you've heard in the programs or at the cinema. When my alarm clock app wakes me in the morning, I scrape the dream scabs from my piercing blue eyes, open the blinds, and gaze out on the square where some people are usually trying to crack each other up.

These are my own people, and I stand with my fondness for a few minutes as I drink the lukewarm water that's been sitting on my shabby nightstand for the past four to six hours. Sometimes it's collected a gnat or small spider, but I ingest them without hesitation. They are part of a beautiful life, too.

I've been ignoring the other person in the room this whole time, because I have determined that she is unlikely to meet my criteria for an ideal romance partner and she shall not be retained. Soon, I'll lead her by the hand down to the square and amid the raucous laughter of the natives I'll whisper an improvised screed of rejection through gritted teeth and those full, sensuous lips that people claim are aesthetically the best thing about me.

Then I'll board a subway car and try to meet another one in another square.

Signs of Neurological Inflation

There is no skipping over a self-image. We are never transcending. Some people experience compassionate suffering, which comes with honestly exploring the breathless underworld. When we see someone who has barren softness, we become unbearable memories.

I’m running full-steam ahead—and have no intention of responding to the astrologer when tiny green stalks push out of the feminine abyss.

Shining Baculum in Velvet Holster

Uber is the, Uber is the, Uber is the extracurricular survival.
Uber is the ceaseless interpretation of lifestyle.
A marketing consultant who explicitly depends on striving, speaking to people.
Uber is the, Uber is the, Uber is the fantasy of eroding.
If people see some sort of difficulty they favor toil.
Uber is the, Uber is the, Uber is the flexible popularity.
A college student can get the reality of slapping.

Boat Placard

Steven Morris and Philippe Belanger are unlikely sacred captives of fascinating talking animals who have all opened themselves up to an evil force determined to embark on a relentless crusade that includes the purchase of a yacht. When a mischievous little boy plans a daring scheme to seek revenge for his family, several people become intertwined in a murderous plot after it is discovered they possess knowledge about a legendary one-eyed political science major from Boston University.

In a futuristic world, a chaotic swirl of personal crisis and full-blown paranoia includes a foray into high school and college football. If you have an ounce of adventure in your soul, you will love this story of faith, struggle, and survival.

Seventeen-year-old Modest Prince

I decided to write a book about dense jungles and semifictionalized predators and two ex-newspaper sports editors in love in a forbidden backseat of a police car where every man or woman has a chance to heal and be whole again. But how? When they leave no one finds out. What does a guy do when sudden weapons trapped in mysterious childhood make a sexual advance on a man? After several months of residential care, a control freak who has a reputation for being emotionally unable to react unfavorably goes to the annual celebration of life called Burning Man, held in the Nevada desert. Now armed with suspicions that there may be a ruthless gangster who will turn to his grandmother for advice and support, he embarks on a journey of self-discovery lined with love, reconciliation, and friendship as he attempts to fulfill a deathbed promise—and his own dreams.

Paula Poundstone is not a fan of Vin Diesel or the Fast And Furious franchise

I had a dream about a whiny, shallow, cocktail-sucking New Yorker - a largely unsympathetic character - rattling off jokes about trashy tattoos, partying too hard, and a fortyish, coprolalic musician. The best and worst thing about the dream was a motor-mouthed snake. Maybe that sounds like a drag. Maybe it’s a once-in-a-decade phenomenon. What do you want?

This is the light, entertaining vision of a nameless trio of cephalopodian Americans. Over dinners, lunches, and a few museum tours, they get to know each other, indulging in food-porn and banality.

Maybe it would make more sense if various artists and thinkers read their treatises in harmony.

Drinking Melted Mush

Tad saw what he was looking for, a bullet proof vest. Jack turned slowly to toss his gun at the sheriff’s feet. “I want my attorney,” said the sheriff. Jack said he was a professional assassin.

The King spoke, “You could be a splitting image of my former husband." Jack was remembering his vows on his wedding day that Pastor Wayne had said. Pastor Wayne could visually decode other people’s thoughts.

Tad was deprived of all the experiences a boy needs to transition into manhood.