Randy

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“This book is fucking awesome. It’s my life’s story. I’m thirty-four but look twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two at the most. I live in Maryland. Please read it. I’m a writer, a songwriter, an artist. I do it all. I’m an artist of life. I’m an adventurer, I’m the president of my development. Read the memoir. You won’t be disappointed.” The follow up to Stinker Lets Loose, Randy! takes it even further. Introduced by a version of Sacks who finds the document in a garage sale, it is written by the struggling poet and novelist Noah B., who is embedded in the mind and lifestyle of a perversely unexceptional American asshole—one from Maryland, no less. Like Pale Fire if it were about a Danny McBride-style fuckup, it is both unmoored from time and eerily prescient of our own—one so stupid and unbelievable that it requires a writer like Sacks.