The Rosy Chronicle

By Thomas D'Adamo

New from Green Dolphin Street Media!

Comedian Paul Anger isn't feeling very funny lately. In fact, he's feeling downright suicidal. Grieving the loss of the most important person in his life, his career in tatters, and suffering from a case of the terminal shakes, Paul is thoroughly disgusted with life, himself, food, TV, cell phones, music, words, love, psychotherapy, porcupines, authenticity, house plants, politics, hope, the news, old money, exurbia, neighbors....you name it and Paul hates it. Then, just when all seems lost, fate throws him a lifeline in the form of a leash, at the other end of which is a dog named Rosy.

Obliged to keep a journal by his court-appointed therapist (a.k.a. "That Prepubescent Twerp," "That Pimple-popping Smurf," and a few other choice epithets), Paul, assisted by Rosy, reluctantly embarks on a journey of self-discovery which he faithfully records, and which now, thanks to the miracle of digital publishing, anybody with a few bucks to spare can eavesdrop on in The Rosy Chronicle.

But be forewarned, if you're looking for another Marley & Me, this book is NOT for you. Dark, irreverent, and fairly raunchy at times, The Rosy Chronicle will appeal to fans of author Thomas Bernhard and comedian Louis C.K.

About the Author
A longtime denizen of New York’s Lower East Side, Thomas D’Adamo now lives in the woods by Wissahickon Creek with Veronica, his beloved Conn 10M “Lady Face” tenor sax. His stories, poems and reviews have appeared in The Brooklyn Rail, Bookforum, and other publications. His other books include the critically acclaimed Big, Big Love: The Amazing True Story of Bob Friendly, America's Most Beloved Motivational Figure, and Killing Jackson Hardon, A Novel, both available from Green Dolphin Street Media.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas D'Adamo
• Release date: Jul 31, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310299414

Thomas D'Adamo

A longtime denizen of New York’s Lower East Side, Thomas D’Adamo now lives in the woods by Wissahickon Creek with Veronica, his beloved Conn 10M “Lady Face” tenor sax. His stories, poems and reviews have appeared in The Brooklyn Rail, Bookforum, and other publications.

Book preview

SEPTEMBER 21

Hello, my name is Paul. I’m a miserable son of a bitch, and I don’t give a shit about nuthin' or nobody.

Hi Paul, nice to meet you!

SEPTEMBER 23

Monday:

Me.

Tuesday:

Me.

Wednesday:

Me.

Thursday:

Me.

Friday:

Me.

…A surfeit of me.

Where will it end?

SEPTEMBER 24

Tears, remorse, destruction of personal property, and a piquant dash of self-loathing. And that’s just for breakfast.

SEPTEMBER 25

When I do manage to catch a few winks it’s dreams, dreams, murderous, hideous dreams, the worst of them featuring Hanna.

SEPTEMBER 27

Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna. Hanna.

SEPTEMBER 28

I thought we had all the time in the world.

No I didn’t.

I thought that it was as good as it gets, so why mess with it?

Wrong again.

I thought that, in time, we’d naturally settle into the rest of our lives together.

WRONG. WRONG. WRONG!

OCTOBER

OCTOBER 2

Music hurts. Books are an affront. Conversation is torture. Food is nauseating. As for TV, the last refuge of the dullard, the twit, the terminal insomniac: best argument yet for species extinction. Sixty years of innovation has succeeded in transforming a wasteland into a cranial aneurysm.

OCTOBER 3

Fuck you, Shiteater, I can’t do this. What is there to say? The world is shit. People are shit. I’m shit. Words are shit. The End.

On the other hand, the only thing I can imagine feeling worse than this is feeling it in jail. So journal on funny-man and keep the bulls from out your face.

OCTOBER 4

Here’s one for you: I haven’t had a hard-on in over six months.

Here’s another one: from what I've been reading online, chances are I never will again.

God closes a door and opens a black hole.

Wee, isn’t journaling fun?

OCTOBER 5

Another stultifying fifty-minute hour with the Shiteater today. That pimple-popping Smurf could bore a bull elephant to death at a hundred yards. Are all shrinks so depressingly predictable, or just the budget ones? I counted a dozen clichés I never would’ve believed therapists actually use outside of the movies. At one point it got so bad I found myself thinking, if this idiot bursts into the anthem from Up with People I’ll hit him with a chair and head for Canada. And this is what everybody always told me I was missing?

OCTOBER 6

That Shiteater really knows his stuff! Today, for the first time in…who knows how long, I was inspired to write a joke:

A guy walks into a bar and orders a double Irish, neat. The bartender serves him his drink and the guy thanks him and says, Excuse me my good man, I was just admiring your beautifully restored tin ceiling and was wondering if perchance you know how high it is? And the bartender replies, Well, funny you should ask, but just last week I needed to measure the height for a new light fixture and I can tell you with absolute certainty that our ceiling is exactly nine feet, ten inches high.

Splendid, that will do just fine, the guy says as he reaches into his coat and pulls out a stick of dynamite. With his other hand he fishes in his pants pocket until he finds his trusty Zippo which he uses to light the fuse. The guy then throws back the whiskey, shoves the lit stick of dynamite into his mouth, and spins around to face the room, yelling, Uhkay schockersh, hish ish ah schtickop!

Yeah, well, I guess you had to be there.

OCTOBER 7

Maybe I really do need to have my head examined. What was