Youth in Revolt

Informationen zum Autor C.D. Payne Klappentext The hilarious! take-no-prisoners novel about a cynical! sex-obsessed teenager's pining love for an intelligent girl-the basis for the major motion picture starring Michael Cera. Youth in Revolt is the journals of Nick Twisp! California's most precocious diarist! whose ongoing struggles to make sense out of high school! deal with his divorced parents! and lose his virginity result in his transformation from an unassuming fourteen-year-old to a modern youth in open revolt. As his family splinters! worlds collide! and the police block all routes out of town! Nick must cope with economic deprivation! homelessness! the gulag of the public schools! a competitive type-A father! murderous canines! and an inconvenient hair trigger on his erectile response-all while vying ardently for the affections of the beauteous Sheeni Saunders! teenage goddess! and ultimate intellectual goad. JULY WEDNESDAY, July 18 - My name is Nick. Someday, if I grow up to become a gangster, perhaps I will be known as Nick the Prick. This may cause some embarrassment for my family, but when your don gives you your mafia sobriquet you don't ask questions. I am 14 years old (nearly) and live in Oakland, a large torpid city across the bay from San Francisco. I am writing this in the tenuous privacy of my bedroom on my annoyingly obsolete AT clone. My friend Lefty gave me a bootleg copy of WordPerfect, so I'm doing some writing to try and learn the command codes. My ambition is someday to be able to move entire paragraphs in a single bound. My last name, which I loathe, is Twisp. Even John Wayne on a horse would look effeminate pronouncing that name. As soon as I turn 21 I'm going to jettison it for something a bit more macho. Right now, I'm leaning toward Dillinger. "Nick Dillinger." I think that strikes just the right note of hirsute virility. I am an only child except for my big sister Joanie, who has left the bosom of her family to live in Los Angeles and sling hash at 35,000 feet. The next thing you should know about me is that I am obsessed with sex. When I close my eyes, ranks of creamy thighs slowly part like some X-rated Busby Berkeley extravaganza. Lately I have become morbidly aware of my penis. Once a remote region accessed indifferently for businesslike micturition, it has developedseemingly overnightinto a gaudy Las Vegas of the body, complete with pulsing neon, star-studded floor shows, exotic animal acts, and throngs of drunken conventioneers perpetually on the prowl for depraved thrills. I walk about in a state of obsessive expectancy, ever conscious of an urgent clamor rising from my tumescent loins. Any stimulus can trigger the showa rhythmic rumble from the radiator, the word "titular" in a newspaper editorial, even the smell of the old vinyl in Mr. Ferguson's Toyota. As much as I think about sex, I can only with extreme difficulty conceive of myself actually performing the act. And here's another thing I wonder about. How could you ever look a girl in the eye after you've had your winkie up her wendell? I mean, doesn't that render normal social conversation impossible? Apparently not. THURSDAY, July 19 My mother just left for work. She gives people driver's tests at the Department of Motor Vehicles. As you might expect, she is extremely well informed on all the arcane rules of the road (like who has to back up when two cars meet on a one-lane mountain road). She used to keep Dad up to date as he drove along on all the motor statutes he was violating. That's one of the reasons they got divorced. I'm not speaking to her right now. Last Monday I came back from two miserable days in my dad's custody to find she had painted my bedroom a ghastly pink. She said she had read this color was widely used in hospitals to calm mental patients. I told her I wasn't mentally ill, I was just a teenager. Meanwhile, ...

Autorentext

C.D. Payne

Klappentext

The hilarious, take-no-prisoners novel about a cynical, sex-obsessed teenager's pining love for an intelligent girl-the basis for the major motion picture starring Michael Cera.

Youth in Revolt is the journals of Nick Twisp, California's most precocious diarist, whose ongoing struggles to make sense out of high school, deal with his divorced parents, and lose his virginity result in his transformation from an unassuming fourteen-year-old to a modern youth in open revolt. As his family splinters, worlds collide, and the police block all routes out of town, Nick must cope with economic deprivation, homelessness, the gulag of the public schools, a competitive type-A father, murderous canines, and an inconvenient hair trigger on his erectile response-all while vying ardently for the affections of the beauteous Sheeni Saunders, teenage goddess, and ultimate intellectual goad.

Leseprobe

JULY

WEDNESDAY, July 18 -— My name is Nick. Someday, if I grow up to become a gangster, perhaps I will be known as Nick the Prick. This may cause some embarrassment for my family, but when your don gives you your mafia sobriquet you don't ask questions.

I am 14 years old (nearly) and live in Oakland, a large torpid city across the bay from San Francisco. I am writing this in the tenuous privacy of my bedroom on my annoyingly obsolete AT clone. My friend Lefty gave me a bootleg copy of WordPerfect, so I'm doing some writing to try and learn the command codes. My ambition is someday to be able to move entire paragraphs in a single bound.

My last name, which I loathe, is Twisp. Even John Wayne on a horse would look effeminate pronouncing that name. As soon as I turn 21 I'm going to jettison it for something a bit more macho. Right now, I'm leaning toward Dillinger. "Nick Dillinger." I think that strikes just the right note of hirsute virility.

I am an only child except for my big sister Joanie, who has left the bosom of her family to live in Los Angeles and sling hash at 35,000 feet.

The next thing you should know about me is that I am obsessed with sex. When I close my eyes, ranks of creamy thighs slowly part like some X-rated Busby Berkeley extravaganza. Lately I have become morbidly aware of my penis. Once a remote region accessed indifferently for businesslike micturition, it has developed—seemingly overnight—into a gaudy Las Vegas of the body, complete with pulsing neon, star-studded floor shows, exotic animal acts, and throngs of drunken conventioneers perpetually on the prowl for depraved thrills. I walk about in a state of obsessive expectancy, ever conscious of an urgent clamor rising from my tumescent loins. Any stimulus can trigger the show—a rhythmic rumble from the radiator, the word "titular" in a newspaper editorial, even the smell of the old vinyl in Mr. Ferguson's Toyota.

As much as I think about sex, I can only with extreme difficulty conceive of myself actually performing the act. And here's another thing I wonder about. How could you ever look a girl in the eye after you've had your winkie up her wendell? I mean, doesn't that render normal social conversation impossible? Apparently not.

THURSDAY, July 19 — My mother just left for work. She gives people driver's tests at the Department of Motor Vehicles. As you might expect, she is extremely well informed on all the arcane rules of the road (like who has to back up when two cars meet on a one-lane mountain road). She used to keep Dad up to date as he drove along on all the motor statutes he was violating. That's one of the reasons they got divorced.

I'm not speaking to her right now. Last Monday I came back from two miserable days in my dad's custody to find she had painted my bedroom a ghastly pink. She said she had read this color was widely used in hospitals to calm mental patients. I told her I wasn't mentally ill, I was just a teenager. Meanwhile, I am now embarrassed to invite my friends over. When you're a slight, unathletic teen who…