Love Monkey (eBook)

Edward Monkton (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2011 | 1. Auflage
32 Seiten
HarperCollins Publishers (Verlag)
978-0-00-745415-0 (ISBN)

Infos

SPECIAL PRICE FOR A LIMITED TIME Edward Monkton's surprisingly philosophical take on all aspects of love, life and happiness have made Monkton's drawings stylish collectors' items and a mark of good taste year in, year out. Another offering from the bestselling author. He dreamt of a monkey whose SMILE lit up his soul like sunshine. He held out his heart to her, so RADIANT, so splendid and so new. She took him in her arms and felt truly, perfectly, at PEACE. A lyrical and beautiful story about finding true and enduring love. Deeply affecting in its honesty, humour and simplicity. It might just be genius.

Textauszug

My day.

8:00 A.M. Arise.

8:008:15. Light stretching. Don't forget those hamstrings. A few push-ups to warm the blood.

8:20. Out the door, hit Central Park Reservoir. Do six laps. Pace: seven minutes per mile. That's ten and a half miles in seventy-five minutes.

9:45. Back home. Shower, reread The Brothers Karamazov ('Grand Inquisitor' episode only).

11:45. Call Mom.

12:30. Lunch. Grilled quail, wild rice, spinach salad, fresh-squeezed oj.

1:00. To the Met. Check out Vermeer exhibit. Strike up conversation with cute twenty-five-year-old Dutch graduate student I meet standing in front of Woman Wearing Doily Around Her Neck, obtain her numerals, agree to meet for drinks at the Carlyle 'early next week.'

4:00. Back home. Work on my novel till dinner. One interruption: call from superagent.

8:30. Quiet dinner with a few friends at Le Bernadin. No really, fellas, it's on me. They all know about my huge advance. We laugh about it.

11:45. Village Vanguard to hear some jazz. Exchange dirty jokes with compadres, trade saucy banter with cocktail waitress who, as I sweep out the door, slips me her digits.

2:00. Cab back home, practice piano for half an hour, and so to bed. If can't sleep, read a chapter of that John Adams bio everyone's talking about. (Was he really cooler than T. Jefferson?)

That's what it says in my Yahoo! appointment book for today, anyway. But back here on Planet Manhattan, I creep out of bed as dawn breaks over Honolulu and skulk in the shower for forty-five minutes. (I know it was forty-five minutes because I had Pink Floyd's The Wall in my Raindance CD player, and I got all the way through disc one.) Then I pick, off the floor, a few more dead flower petals from The Dinner and plant myself on the sofa that still bears my ass print from last night, surrounded by my twenty-first-century entertainment- and sodium-delivery devices: four fiendishly over-complicated, girl-proof remote controls, two near-spent crinkly bags of salty snacks. There's a white crumb on the couch. I am too civilized to just leave it there, so I pick it up. And I put it in my mouth. Pfft. Dandruff. At best.

Some notes on me.

The name is Tom Farrell. I'm from That generation. You know the one I'm talking about. The one after the one that discovered the Beatles and nonbinding sex, the one before the one where seventeen-year-olds asked to be excused from Phys. Ed. so they could launch their IPOs. Yeah, that'd be us: the Lamest Generation. Cultural anthropologists of the future will remember us primarily for nonblack tuxedos, Valerie Bertinelli, and Men at Work. Our grandfathers won World War II. We can't even tie a bow tie.

I'm not in great shape. I do, occasionally, complete one gasping lap around the reservoir. When I run, it's prose in motion. My abs are a one-pack. My arms are steamed licorice. My teeth are carved of wax. I've been compared to a redheaded Winnie the Pooh, an Oompa Loompa without the self-tanning lotion, a slightly elongated Teletubby. For one formative grade -- fifth -- I was known exclusively as 'Doughboy.' The first time some playground wit poked my tummy hoping to elicit a girlish giggle, it was funny. The 100th time it was less so. By the 500th time, I was developing a complex, and at 603 (I counted, oh how I counted), I entered therapy. At 607, my late father opened a glassine-windowed envelope, began a five-second argument with my mother ('What the hell is this shit?'), and therapy was concluded.

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 24.11.2011
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Comic / Humor / Manga ► Humor / Satire
• Themenwelt: Sonstiges ► Geschenkbücher
• ISBN-10: 0-00-745415-5 / 0007454155
• ISBN-13: 978-0-00-745415-0 / 9780007454150