Dale Peck Statistics

Number of times the word “gay” is mentioned in the profile:

Salon: 3
James Atlas’s NYT Profile: 3
The Guardian: 2
Gawker: 0

Word Count of Profiles:

Salon: 2,629
James Atlas’s NYT Profile: 4,123
The Guardian: 3,288
Gawker: 2,379

Comparatively, Approximate Word Counts for Classic Short Stories:

O. Henry, “The Gift of the Magi”: 2,000
James Thurber, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”: 2,050
Ray Bradbury, “A Sound of Thunder”: 4,300
Flannery O’Connor, “A Good Man is Hard to Find”: 6,200

A Sure Way to Keep Dale Peck from Manhattan: “For the next year I am working for Howard Dean or whatever Democrat gets the nomination or whenever Hillary decides to enter the race, I guess. And if a Democrat wins, I will be far more prone to stay, but if George W. Bush is reelected I think I really want to leave and just get the hell out of Dodge.”

Dale Flexing His Wit : “I am not sure if you can print this. But they are a bunch of pussies.”

If You Disagree With Peck, You’re…: “ditch-dirty stupid” or “homophobic.”

The James Atlas Memorial Brown Nose Generalization Award: “This really is a man writing, as the cliché has it, for his life: Domestic violence is a gift and postmodernism is the religion through which he interprets it.”

Dubious Peck Prose Sample: Zoetrope, “Making Book”: “‘Fuck off!’ I yelled at the TV in general and at Ace’s ass in particular, but with the video paused and the television suddenly silent–there had been a bass track, courtesy of these two like totally obnoxious dudes who’d been next to us on the beach, but it disappeared when I paused the video–I could almost see my words carry past the television to my door, and then push on through to my mom at the top of the stairs.”

Better Peck Prose Sample: Zoetrope, “Bliss”: “The shapeless clouds, the crisp diamond lattice of the chain-link fence through which I saw them, the fat gate guard, his uniform stretched so taut across the gelid curves of his body that it seemed to cry out for the pierce of bullet or knife. Black eye-shaped puddles reflected the limestone walls of the prison and rendered them hollow, insubstantial, penetrable, until a car traveling the length of the parking lot spat grit into them, causing the walls to disappear momentarily. Then the water stilled, revealing the image of Shenandoah Manson. He was dressed in stiff jeans and a chambray shirt faded nearly white, the sleeves rolled up over arms nearly as faded, and etched by pale blue veins and razor-blade-and-Bic-ink tattoos of Jesus, Mary, and a snarling Ford pickup.”

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