Will Not Attend: Lively Stories Of Detachment And Isolation (english Edition) Format Kindle

Présentation de l'éditeur Adam Resnick, an Emmy Award-winning writer for NBC’s Late Night with David Letterman, has spent his entire life trying to avoid interaction with people. While courageously admitting to being “euphorically antisocial” and “sick in the head,” he allows us to plunge even deeper into his troubled psyche in this unabashedly uproarious memoir-in-essays where we observe Resnick’s committed indifference to family, friends, strangers, and the world at large. His mind shaped by such touchstone events as a traumatic Easter egg hunt when he was six (which solidified his hatred of parties) and overwrought by obsessions, including one with a plastic shopping bag (which solidified his hatred for change), he refuses to be burdened by chores like basic social obligation and personal growth, living instead by his own steadfast rule: “I refuse to do anything I don’t want to do.” Cut from a similar (if somewhat stranger) cloth as Albert Brooks or Louis C.K., Resnick is the crazy, miserable bastard you can’t help rooting for, and the brilliant Will Not Attend showcases this seasoned comedy writer at his brazenly hilarious best. Extrait ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2014 by Adam Resnick    An Easter Story     There was Patrick Swope’s eighth birthday party, a sleepover at Jeff Kay’s, and a backyard carnival for muscular dystrophy at Tony Geisinger’s—a flurry of affairs over a two-week period that pretty much sealed my fate. The condensed timing of these events and my refusal to attend every one of them highlighted a pattern of behavior that my mother had long been concerned about: I didn’t like to socialize with other kids. By the time an invitation arrived for an Easter party at Eddie Hoke’s, I knew I was screwed. She told me in no uncertain terms I’d be going and that was that. “You don’t want to get a reputation as a kook,” she said. “The neighborhood already has Greg Peifer.” Greg Peifer was an older boy who lived up the street, a schizophrenic who had a habit of leaving bottle caps filled with urine in people’s mailboxes, sometimes accompanied by a piece of Scripture. While I’ve never claimed to be one of those happy, well-adjusted types, I was certainly no Greg Peifer. I simply had an aversion to social interaction with my peers. Sure, I had a few friends whose company I enjoyed in measured doses, but in general I found kids to be off-putting, especially in second grade. Boys were obviously the worst. I couldn’t stand the way they shouted all the time, hated their cretinous obsession with weaponry and construction vehicles, and was never a fan of the whole make-a-fart-sound-with-your-armpit thing. Sadly, I had little choice in the matter; it was an experience mandated by the state. What I really resented, though, was being roped into hanging around kids beyond the required hours of school. Everything in their homes nauseated me; the furniture, the pets, the fucking boat in the garage, and the way their moms tossed out words like “hamper,” “pantry,” and “coverlet.” Their milk was made from powder and the toilet water was blue. Assholes! It’s all burned into my brain— from Rob Ecker’s dad cutting his birthday cake with a pocketknife to the Folletts’ use of baby food jars as drinking glasses. Christ, Andy Boyle’s grandmother actually lived with him. Grim. The day of the Easter party closed in like a lurking predator, and I began feeling more trapped by the minute. But my wheels were turning. Abdominal deception had freed me from more childhood obligations than I can remember. It got me out of Sunday school, saved me from visiting my aunt Shirley in Dillsburg, and allowed me to dodge Hello, Dolly! at the Hershey Theatre. Unfortunately, the stomachache gag had grown shopworn with the old lady and could no longer be relied on. I had roughly a week to build some credibility. I eased into it, complaining of mild queasiness on Monday after school. By Tuesday morning I spoke of an