[EDITOR'S NOTE: Reluctant Habits has obtained an excerpt of David O. Russell's new book series for children, Alienated. The series will center around two children who work for "an old tabloid that covers the worlds of freaks and aliens."]
The alien had come into the tabloid’s office for a profile piece. But why couldn’t she understand Penelope’s simple instructions? Why couldn’t she see that Penelope had greater plans for her?
“Fuck you,” said Penelope, whose cute golden curls glistened with venom. “I was trying to fucking help you. Do you understand me?”
The alien, whose name was Lily and whose curls did not glisten with venom, sat at the desk, puzzled that an eight-year-old girl would use such language.
“Try being a fucking collaborator. I was trying to help you figure out…”
Penelope had a point to make. She was, after all, a freak. Nobody understood her. And it was necessary to throw a tantrum so that the extent of her genius — her fucking genius — would be understood. Why couldn’t Lily understand her? But this was all for the best!
“Hey bitch! I’m not here to be fucking yelled at! I’ve worked on this fucking tabloid for three fucking years, and to have some cunt….”
Penelope kicked a binder on the desk for emphasis. Her genius extended into musical rhythm. It was good to be a freak. Good to be angry. Good to watch one of the secretaries cower near the door in the corner. They’d never treat her with contempt again. Penelope was surprised that Lily was calm the entire time.
“…yell at me in front of the fucking staff when I’m trying to fucking…fuck you, bitch. Figure it out yourself! Fuck yourself!”
Penelope began to beat her fists into the wall. It seemed the right thing for a genius to do.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Isabelle Huppert’s reaction to Russell and Tomlin’s fight while they were trying to film the scene in the car makes her one of the sexiest women who ever lived. She could’ve so given a fuck. She was fixing her hair, looking at herself in the mirror. Oh my God. She has more sex appeal in one of her freckles than Angelina Jolie will ever have. There’s Isabelle, Ornella Muti, Anne Dusenberry, Charlie Spradling, and the rest can go to hell.
David Russell writing a children’s book. Interesting.