God Hates Us All

Maybe it’s just the sunshine that socks me in the face when I walk out the door, but I’m just not ready to go home and get ready for work. I could start fresh. Find a job in a better restaurant. Quit food service altogether.

I don’t even have to stay in New York. K. said that traveling was lonely, but I’ve never even been to California, where the sun’s supposed to shine like this every day of the year.

I pop a cassette into the Buick’s stereo. It’s the Ramones. I turn the volume up high and roll down the windows. The highway air tastes of fumes, but it still feels goddamn good to breathe.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book never would have existed without my follicularly challenged agent Charlie Runkle, the best in the business. Thanks also to his foxy wife Marcy, for everything she does to keep him that way. I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to my editor, Cara Bedick, whose quiet persistence saved you, dear reader, from many a cliché (although maybe not this one). To Tom K., for believing in me before anybody else did. Thanks also, in no particular order, to Alex Cox, Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen (and Gary Oldman and Chloe Webb), the very helpful staff at Kings Park, Johnny’s Deli and their life-sustaining egg sandwiches, Randy Runkle, the Ramones, and Judy Blume, who taught me everything I think I know about women. Finally, I am grateful to my family: my father, for observing early (and often) that I wasn’t cut out for doing honest work; my sisters, whose laughter at the dinner table still keeps me going; and my mother, to whom I owe, literally and metaphorically, absolutely everything.